


HSM AU

by fitzgarbage



Category: High School Musical (Movies), 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: High School Musical AU, I'm very sorry, M/M, exactly.... exactly what it says, you don't need to know high school musical to read this btw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-06-08 22:37:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6876796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitzgarbage/pseuds/fitzgarbage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Mom,” he whispers. “I don’t want to be the school’s freaky genius again.”</p><p>“Then don’t be,” she says. “Just be Taehyung.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "the start of something new"

**Author's Note:**

> theres just no excuse for this

It’s New Year’s Eve. People everywhere are celebrating, lighting off fireworks that erupt into the starry night sky all the way down the horizon. Old friends are seen, new ones made, resolutions are decided, ends are tied. People reflect on where they’ve been and where they want to be. Time continues to move forward. The year turns over in about an hour, and everything is going pretty well for Jeongguk. Granted, he hasn’t been to any parties, hasn’t seen any fireworks. Has no resolutions or ends to tie. All he’s done on this vacation so far is shoot hoops in the basement gym of the ski lodge, but it’s been good. It’s what he likes doing; it’s where he wants to be.

He knows that the year turns over in an hour, but he’s fully prepared to bring it in like this, playing against his dad, in gym shorts and a tank top, sweating and feeling like he’s doing the most to be the best. It’s like some kind of omen, right? If he’s shooting a three-pointer at New Year’s, it’s gotta mean good things for the rest of the year. What Jeongguk needs isn’t luck, it’s hard work, but a little bit of luck never hurt anybody either.

And, actually, he’d like some luck right now, with the way his dad’s been kicking his ass lately in training. It’s probably because Jeongguk is the team captain now and basketball season starts as soon as he gets back to school, but either way this break has been a demanding couple of weeks. He’s been having to constantly give his all against his dad, slippery with sweat, muscles always tired, and it’s like his dad hardly has to adjust his position to block everything Jeongguk tries. It’s motivation to be better, though. Jeongguk is working hard to improve.

He tries a couple moves that get blocked with hardly any effort from his dad, sneakers screeching loudly in this weird underground white-painted gym, but then he gets serious. He misses a couple shots but then he really goes for it, tries to be not just strong, but strategic. His mind and body work in unison and he lithely winds around his opponent, ready to adjust and score against him. This shot’s a really close one, so very nearly blocked, but Jeongguk manages, finally, to get around his dad and score. He almost falls over with the exertion afterwards as the bouncing ball echoes through the gym, but his dad’s nothing but impressed. “Let’s see that in the game,” he says proudly, offering a high five that Jeongguk gladly returns. Then, just as he’s recovered enough to start to try again, he hears heels clicking toward the court and the sound of the door slipping closed.

“Hey, boys,” comes his mom’s voice, and Jeongguk turns to meet it.

“Hey,” says Jeongguk.

“Did we really fly all this way to play more basketball?”

Jeongguk and his dad look at each other knowingly, and in unison, they admit it. “Yeah.”

“It’s the last night of vacation,” she says. “The party, remember?”

“Right, the party,” says Jeongguk, like he’s forgotten. The truth is, he just doesn’t care. He was hoping he’d be able to avoid it entirely. What’s the point, anyway? It’s not like he’s going to meet anybody at this ski lodge that he’ll ever talk to again. No, better to beef up for the upcoming season.

“Come on, shower up. Jeongguk, there’s a kid’s party upstairs.”

“Kid’s party?” he says disbelievingly. What a way to pique his interest. Not.

“ _Young adults_ ,” says his mom. “Now come on, shower up.”

He concedes, but not before flinging the ball at the hoop one more time, almost blindly. Somehow, it goes into the basket, and his dad lets out a low whistle. “That’s the way to end it.”

⚾︎

Up at the party, Jeongguk has exactly the kind of time that he expected to have. He sits on a lumpy couch with a cup of too-sweet punch and just waits for time to pass. People around him move. Lots of kids are wearing silly outfits and big hats, and Jeongguk wants to be done. After getting so comfortable in his exercise clothes, the stiff blazer and jeans he’s got on feel unusually tight and restricting, and he sits tensely, shoulders square and face stony.

After a while, very suddenly, a confusing spotlight lands on his face and he blinks into it. Then people are ushering him up toward a little stage, and he processes all at once why all the music has been sounding a little off. Karaoke is happening, and he’s just been chosen. The problem is, he doesn’t sing, and he’s not currently in the mood.

He tries to wave the spotlight off, tries to get the point across that he’s flattered but he’s passing on this one, but eventually the disembodied hands of a bunch of people Jeongguk doesn’t know have shoved him up onto the stage and he’s being handed a mic and he’s got no choice in the matter.

It’s not a solo, it turns out, which is a small relief. There’s another boy being pushed up onto the stage, and he looks equally reluctant to be there. Jeongguk has only a second to wonder why this karaoke system is so inhumane before the beginning notes of a familiar song start to play and he’s got to either sing or fail. A disembodied voice says, “You know, someday you guys might thank me for this.”

“Or not,” the other boy scoffs, but by then, Jeongguk’s already singing.

As soon as the slow piano notes come in, there’s a vocal riff that Jeongguk recognizes, so he does his best with it, making eye contact with the other boy to try and find some cue. There are two parts to the song on the screen, one is blue and one is in green, and so far it’s just Jeongguk’s uncertain voice singing along quietly. He’s not sure if anyone can even hear him; there’s a lot of background noise in the room and Jeongguk is a little nauseous and there’s a ringing in his ears. So all he’s doing is his best.

Then, something happens. The other boy starts singing.

It’s difficult to explain what happens to Jeongguk, because it’s never happened to him before. The ringing in his ears goes away, and the nausea fades, and suddenly he feels less like he’s being forced into something humiliating and more like… like this is a new experience that maybe he was meant to have.

It’s weird, it happens so fast. But the other boy knows this song just as well as Jeongguk does, and he looks just as embarrassed as Jeongguk, with a blush across his cheeks and unfocused eyes. He has a beautiful voice, though, low and smooth and full of feeling. Toward the end of his verse, he looks up at Jeongguk for some confirmation, and Jeongguk nods once, and then the chorus comes in.

The other boy is still singing the green part and Jeongguk is still singing the blue part, but there’s a harmony, and somehow they both hit it perfectly. Jeongguk takes the higher part and the other boy goes lower, and it’s like soaring, like flying. Their voices fit together and they both know this song and they’re both in this difficult situation and it almost becomes funny and wonderful by the time the first chorus ends.

The second verse finds them gaining confidence, looking to each other instead of all the people below them, finding confidence in each other, and the second chorus finds them grooving a little. In fact, the other boy does some weird convoluted dance move and almost falls off the stage, but someone pushes him back up in time and he almost lands in Jeongguk’s arms. It’s sort of amazing.

The song ends slowly, winding down almost in the same way that it wound up. As the ending notes of the piano hit and the lyrics fade off the screen, Jeongguk feels reality rush in around him again. The noise comes back, and the room is unmistakably applauding, but it’s not as tense as it was before, because the other boy gives him a sheepish, understanding look before stepping off the stage and back into the fray of people.

⚾︎

It’s only a few minutes before the year changes when Jeongguk sees the singer boy again. He’s stepped out onto the patio to get some air; the noisy excitement of the crowd inside is starting to get to him again. He’s really happy to see the boy out here, leaning against a balcony over the snowy hill, looking down at the city where fireworks are going off unpredictably every few seconds. He seems wrapped up in it, and he doesn’t notice Jeongguk come up and stand next to him. His face is lit by the string lights that hang up behind them, soft and yellow, and he looks at peace.

“Hey,” Jeongguk says, when he feels like he’s been staring for long enough.

The boy startles. “Oh,” he says, looking up at Jeongguk, then he stretches against the railing like a cat. He sounds sleepy. “Hi again.”

“You were so good back there,” says Jeongguk. “How long have you been singing?”

The boy scoffs. “No,” he says. “I don’t sing. Just like, in church choir, but once I had a solo and I almost fainted. Thanks, though.”

“That’s hard to believe,” says Jeongguk quietly, almost just to himself.

“Yeah, that was the first time I did that. It was pretty cool, actually. What about you? You must sing a lot.”

Jeongguk huffs out a laugh then, leaning his back against the railing and joking, “Yeah, my showerhead is very impressed.”

The din inside organizes itself very suddenly, and everyone’s counting down from ten, and Jeongguk gets a weird feeling in his stomach at the fact that this is happening, right now. Jeongguk and the other boy don’t count down, though, they just look at each other. The way the boy looks at Jeongguk is almost like he’s trying to figure him out, like he’s trying to decode him. Jeongguk doesn’t hate it. Ten seconds feels like a long time.

At zero, the boy stops looking at Jeongguk like that and breaks into a laugh instead, cracking his face into a bright, sunny grin, and he says, “Well, Happy New Year.”

“Yeah,” says Jeongguk, a little dazed. “Happy New Year.”

“I’d better go find my mom and wish her a Happy New Year, too,” he says.

“Oh, yeah, me too,” says Jeongguk, nodding. “Well, not your mom. My mom. And dad.” Jeongguk cringes at himself.

“Um,” says the boy, lingering before he goes. “I’ll call you,” he says. “I’ll call you tomorrow?”

Jeongguk’s heart skips a beat, but he tries to play it cool. “Totally, he says. “Here. Put your number in.”

They trade phones, and the boy makes a silly face with a victory sign and adds a photo to his contact, and Jeongguk just looks very seriously into the camera for his. They trade back, laughing, and Jeongguk looks down at the new contact, internalizing the picture, the name. “Just so you know,” he says, honestly. “Singing with you was the most fun I’ve had on this vacation.” He doesn’t know where that came from, but it feels true in the moment. “Where do you live?”

He looks up, though, and the boy is gone. Jeongguk’s heart drops, the soaring feeling dying in a second, but it’s okay. He’s got to wish his mom a Happy New Year, and Jeongguk’s got to do the same, and they can text later, or something. Jeongguk lingers for one more second on the contact, and can’t help but say the name to himself. “Taehyung.”


	2. Chapter 2

On the first day of the new term, Taehyung and his mom walk up to the front doors of a school that seems alive, full, vibrant. This school is really big. It’s different. There’s a lot of pride, which is new. It’s strange, and Taehyung doesn’t know what he thinks about it yet. He hopes he doesn’t stand out for keeping to himself here.

He and his mom squeeze through a group of people screaming the school chant at each other, something that Taehyung hopes doesn’t get too old too fast, as he’s already heard it what feels like a hundred times since stepping onto school grounds. It’s probably just the excitement of a new semester, though. Everybody’s happy to be back. He supposes that bodes well.

They meet with the vice-principal, who gives Taehyung a schedule and points him to his first class. Then it’s time for his mom to leave him here. Standing in the hallway though, about to let her go, confident kids milling around him like they’ve never had to worry about making friends before, the anxiety is real. He’s had to do this so much, and it never gets any easier. “Mom,” he whispers. “My stomach.”

His mom hums at him like she gets it, but she says, “You’ll do great. You always do.” She nods at him, trying to get him to nod back, and he does weakly. This time should be easier, at least. Her company promised not to transfer her again until he graduates. So he can try, this time, to get to know his classmates. But that means he’s got to make a good impression.

“I’ve reviewed your impressive transcripts,” says the vice principal, then. It’s the wrong thing to say, it makes Taehyung’s nausea come back full force, but the principal doesn’t stop. “I suspect your light will shine brightly here at East High.”

Taehyung groans and looks at his mom imploringly. It can’t be too late to be homeschooled. “Mom,” he whispers again. “I don’t want to be the school’s freaky genius again.”

“Then don’t be,” she says. “Just be Taehyung.”

⚾︎

“Hey. Hey Jeongguk. Jeongguk.” Jimin shoves at his shoulder. “Jeongguk.”

“Hm?” says Jeongguk, trying to make sense of all the chatter around him. He’s been off for three weeks but this feels like a completely different classroom. Everybody’s got so much to catch up on, everybody’s so energetic even this early in the morning. “Hi there, Jimin.”

“I missed you, man! How was that, that ski thing, or whatever?”

Jeongguk shrugs, and then he can’t say anything because Mr. Bang walks in from the side door. He flings his scarf over his shoulder, claps a few times, and shouts, “Excuse me?”

The classroom doesn’t seem to settle as much as Bang would like, so he claps again, but it’s ineffectual because his soft little hands don’t really make noise when they slap against each other. Jimin snickers behind Jeongguk. “I trust you’ve all had splendid holidays,” says Mr. Bang, pacing in front of the class. “Check the signup sheets in the lobby for information,” he starts, “Especially regarding our winter _musicale_.” He keeps talking, and Jeongguk tries to listen, he really does, because Mr. Bang is a hardass who has it out for him, but someone he sort of recognizes slips quietly into the room and sits in the back, and Jeongguk cranes around to figure out who it is.

“Mr. Jeon,” continues Mr. Bang. “Mr. Park, this is a place of learning, not a hockey arena,” he says as Jimin shakes at Jeongguk’s shoulder to try to get him to turn back around. “There’s also a final sign up for next month’s scholastic decathlon competition. Chem club president Jung Hoseok can assist with any such questions,” and then Jeongguk zones out again because he realizes who it is that’s looking pointedly down at his desk in the back. It’s Taehyung from karaoke, from New Year’s. Taehyung, who he never thought he’d see again. What’s he doing here? Jeongguk pulls out his phone as inconspicuously as he can manage and texts a question mark to Taehyung’s number.

Sure enough, Taehyung’s phone buzzes, and his brow furrows while he rushes to silence it. He sees, though, what the text is, and he looks around the room until he and Jeongguk meet each other’s eyes. They widen in shock, and everything starts to go quiet around them, until Mr. Bang says, “Ah, the cell-phone has returned to our crucible of learning.”

“Is it your phone?” whispers awful Namjoon in the second seat from the front.

“Jin and Namjoon. Cell phones.”

“No, no no no no,” says Jin from the very front and center seat, trying to defend himself. “You see, Mr. Bang, it was--”

“Cell phone, Mr. Kim.”

Jin squeaks in frustration and all but throws his pink phone into the basket.

Mr. Bang walks to the back of the room, holding his all-too-convenient basket out to Taehyung. “We have a zero tolerance policy for cell-phone use, Mr. Kim,” he says. “And welcome to East High.” Mr. Bang turns to Jeongguk. “Mr. Jeon, I see your phone is involved, so we’ll see you in detention, as well.”

Jeongguk shakes his head. He’s got basketball after school; he can’t miss practice or he’s failing the whole team.

Jimin cuts in for him. “That’s not a possibility, Mr. Bang, your honor,” he says, “Because, we have basketball, and--”

“Perfect,” says Mr. Bang. “So, fifteen minutes for Mr. Park as well? Shall the carnage continue? Or can we return to the holy process of acquiring knowledge?" He looks around the room to make sure he's got everyone's attention and says, "Good. Any questions?”

“How were your holidays, Mr. Bang?” asks Jimin innocently. Jeongguk covers his face against the snort of laughter that tries to come out.

⚾︎

Taehyung catches up to Jeongguk in the hallway. “I don’t…”

“I don’t believe it,” says Jeongguk, quietly, a smile in his voice, more mildly than he was in that classroom a minute ago.

“Me neither,” says Taehyung, blinking at Jeongguk. He’s acting almost shy, and it’s surprising after seeing him like that, seeing him pat backs and grin and whoop along with just about everyone in that class. After seeing him sing like there was nothing in the world that could make him nervous. Even now, someone walks by, grabbing Jeongguk’s shoulder familiarly and going, “Welcome back, man!”

Jeongguk laughs, says, “Hey,” and then looks right back into Taehyung’s eyes almost imploringly. “How?” he says.

“My mom transferred here,” Taehyung says. Then, a little quietly, a little desperately, he says, “I looked for you.”

“We had to leave first thing,” Jeongguk whispers. “You know, my friends, they know about the snowboarding, but they don’t really know about,” he points between them. “This.”

“What?” asks Taehyung. “The singing?”

“Yeah,” sighs Jeongguk. “The singing.” Someone else jostles Jeongguk, and he flinches almost like he’s hurt by it. “Hey, man,” he says quietly, to the person accosting him. He turns back to Taehyung, and now they’re walking together slowly. “Well,” he says, “Welcome,” and there’s something in his voice that sounds like he means that so much. The laugh, the easy confidence returns to his voice when he says, “Now that you’ve met Bang I’m sure you’re really excited to sign up for the musical?”

“Well, I’m not signing up for anything just yet,” says Taehyung. “But if you do, I’ll definitely come see you sing.”

Jeongguk snorts. “That’s impossible.”

The boy with the pink blazer who was sitting in the front of the class before appears out of thin air with another person at his side and sidles up to Jeongguk. “What’s impossible?” he chirps, pouting. “I wouldn’t think that word is even in your vocabulary, Jeongguk.” He gives Taehyung a slow once-over that leaves him feeling naked and then talks to him like it’s a challenge. “Were you going to sign up?” he says flippantly, noticing that they’re standing by the auditions list for Bang’s _musicale_. “Me and Namjoon here,” he says, gesturing to the smiling boy standing next to him, “Have starred in every single musical since we were in seventh grade. We love newcomers, though.” He smacks his gum and backs off a little. “So sign up,” he says again. “I’m sure we could find you a nice supporting role.”

Taehyung laughs heartily, hoping it sounds as fake as he means it to. “Nope,” he says, smiling pleasantly. “Just looking at all the bulletin boards. There’s a lot going on at this school!”

The pink boy pulls out a pink marker from the front of his bag and writes _Kim Seokjin_ over half the sign-up sheet. He embellishes it with stars, and adds in smaller text below, _Kim Namjoon_.

“Nice penmanship,” says Taehyung, so sweetly that it’s almost disgusting, and he hears Jeongguk let out an airy laugh behind him. Taehyung realizes that he likes the sound of Jeongguk’s laugh, likes being the reason for it. When they’re more alone sometime, he’ll try to really thank him. It’s already a relief for Taehyung to have someone here that he isn’t afraid of.

The Seokjin boy turns back to Jeongguk, acting like Taehyung isn’t even there, hoists his bag up on his back, and says, “So, Jeongguk, I missed you over break.” He’s clearly trying to guide Jeongguk into walking away with him, but Jeongguk’s not bugding, standing next to Taehyung almost a little possessively. Taehyung and Namjoon look at each other knowingly, sharing a moment about the exchange happening in front of them, and Taehyung decides he really likes Namjoon. So now there are two people at this school who he’s not afraid of, and he smiles big at Namjoon to say so.

“What?” says Seokjin, glaring at Taehyung. “What are you smiling at?”

Jeongguk shakes his head. “Okay, Jin, bye,” he says, and he pushes Taehyung lightly on the shoulder to guide them away together.

“Bye, Jeongguk,” says Jin, so flirtily that Taehyung’s embarrassed for him. “See you around.”


	3. "get'cha head in the game"

“So,” says Jeongguk idly to Jimin, waiting for his dad to show up to practice. “You know that school musical thing?”

Jimin groans.

“I heard you get extra credit just for auditioning?”

Jimin gives Jeongguk such a judgemental look; he quirks his lip and shakes his head and Jeongguk laughs nervously. “You know, for college,” he says, a little defensive.

Jimin sighs. “You think LeBron got extra credit?” he says. “You think he dressed up in fancy shit and danced around on stage? Please, Jeongguk. We need to be serious. Remember _basketball_?”

“It’s not that bad,” says Jeongguk. “Right? I like music.”

“Yeah,” says Jimin, “So do I, but the music in this stuff isn’t hip hop, or rock, or anything that’s essential to culture. Dude, it’s frightening.”

Jeongguk shrugs. So that idea’s a no-go. “Yeah,” he agrees, and hopes Jimin doesn’t hear it if he sounds defeated. “I just thought it might be good for a laugh. And,” he adds. “Jin’s pretty nice.”

“Nice?” says Jimin, disbelieving. “Maybe to you, man. He’s in love with you.” Jimin mimes getting the chills, and Jeongguk makes a face.

“Don’t be like that,” he says. “You don’t know him.”

Jimin goes to say something else, but Jeongguk is saved from the end of that conversation by his dad, his coach, jogging in and yelling, “Alright! Pair up!”

Practice is good; it’s always good. Jeongguk is good at basketball. He works hard, and he’s getting so much better. Just in the last year he’s gotten far quicker and more precise. Maybe it’s because he’s getting taller and wider, his body’s working better. Maybe it’s just how hard he practices. Maybe it’s how much he wants this. Either way, everyone’s looking to him to fill his dad’s shoes, and he finally feels like, if he keeps his head in the game, if he works hard, he can impress them. He thinks he can lead his team to victory. It’s going to take a lot of practice, a lot of commitment from everyone, and a tight focus, but they can do it.

But then, why is Jeongguk losing focus?

Out of everyone on this team, he’s the one who needs it most. He’s not team captain because of who he is, he’s team captain because of how hard he works. He’s earned this. Basketball is _his thing_. It’s what he does; it’s who he is. It’s what he was meant to do. And, at this point, he can’t lose an afternoon of focus, he can’t lose a minute, or that’s going to show in how the team performs. It’s crunch time.

Maybe that pressure is getting to him. Maybe that’s why he completely misses a ball that Jimin chucks at him and gets a welt on the side of an arm. It could just be the pressure, right?

It could also be that, ever since he sang karaoke on New Year’s Eve, right when the year was turning over, ever since he met Taehyung and then met him again like some kind of spooky fate, he’s been thinking about what it means to be a _basketball player_. Like, is that what he’s meant to do? Is it what he has to do? Is it what he wants? Because right now he feels like he’s throwing basketballs back and forth with Jimin, and he doesn’t even want to be here. He feels wrong. His head’s in the game, but his heart’s somewhere else.

He wants to see what singing is all about, for one. He also wants to hang out with Taehyung, and maybe that’s part of it. Maybe it’s singing and it’s Taehyung and both of those things are part of the same thing. What they both mean to Jeongguk right now is doing something different than what people expect. Maybe doing something different than what they like, or what they want. Maybe disappointing his parents, his team, his friends. So of course it’s silly, and Jimin made it pretty clear the kind of reception he’d get if he tried to audition for that musical. It’s not realistic, and yeah, maybe impossible, so he needs to focus on the game and not who he could be if he weren’t who he is. There’s no reason to wish for something different. He’s good enough at basketball to get scholarships; he’s making people proud. He is Jeon Jeongguk the basketball guy, and there’s no reason not to be happy with just that.

⚾︎

“So, it seemed like you knew Jeongguk?” asks Jin after demanding that Taehyung sit next to him in math. He would have gone to the back, but Jin had _insisted_ , made it so that saying no would have been rude, so here he is. He’s been asking Taehyung personal questions about where he’s from and what his hobbies are for the past twenty minutes, hardly even managing to sound interested. He’s clearly working up to the topic of Jeongguk, and the questions are getting hard, because Taehyung doesn’t even know how he feels about Jeongguk, let alone what they are to each other (Friends? Acquaintances? Is Jeongguk just talking to Taehyung because he feels bad? Does Jeongguk feel the thing Taehyung feels when they look at each other?), so it’s hard to tell Jin what he wants to hear without outing himself. “Are you guys friends?”

“Oh, not really,” says Taehyung, but it comes out a little bit wistful. “He was just showing me around.”

“Hm, that sounds fake,” says Jin, tossing his bleached hair. “Jeongguk doesn’t usually interact with _new students_.” He says the last part like it’s an insult.

Taehyung tries not to take it personally; he just hums in response and then glances back up at the chalkboard. “Oh, that should be sixteen over pi,” he says quietly, choosing to focus on the instructor instead of the interview he’s inadvertently ended up giving.

“What’s that?” says the teacher, turning around to look at Taehyung.

“Um,” he says. Then, a little louder, “Sixteen over pi.” He points at the board, where the teacher’s written fourteen. It’s just a simple mistake in carrying her work over correctly, she just misread her own handwriting.

“That’s not possible,” says the teacher, but then she looks down at the textbook and the equation she’s working through and realizes that Taehyung’s right. “Oh,” she says pleasantly. “I stand corrected. And welcome aboard, Mr. Kim.”

Jin makes a weird face and looks at Taehyung inquisitively for the rest of the period, looking over his shoulder at how easily he does the work, and it makes him pretty profoundly uncomfortable. He’s really trying not to be known for this; he’s trying not to be known at all right now. But it seems like Jin’s popular and Jeongguk’s incredibly popular and they’re the only people Taehyung’s really met at this school so far. So maybe it’s inevitable that he’s going to be noticed, and there’s no help for it but to be cool about it and get his work done. Jin’s scary, but he’s gonna do whatever he wants, and Taehyung’s got to just let him.

Turns out, what Jin wants to do is plant evidence in Jung Hoseok’s locker. Taehyung’s barely been introduced to Hoseok, but he comes up to Taehyung during lunch, grabs his hand, shakes it severely, and yells into his eyes.

“The answer is yes!” he says. Taehyung doesn't know what that means, so he just looks at Hoseok blankly until he explains himself. “Our scholastic decathlon team has its first competition next week, and there is _certainly_ a spot for you.”

Taehyung continues staring at Hoseok until he digs in his bag and pulls out a crumpled printout of a newspaper article that Taehyung immediately recognizes. In the last place he lived, he won this small science competition. It wasn’t even big; the town was small. It looks like a bigger deal than it is. Taehyung doesn’t particularly appreciate having it shoved in his face now.

“Where did this come from?” he says blankly.

“Didn’t you put it in my locker?”

Taehyung tries not to look too frustrated when he says, “Of course not.”

Hoseok doesn’t seem to hear him, because he’s yelling again, or maybe he never stopped. “We’d love to have you on our team! We meet almost every day after school, and sometimes at lunch. Please? Please? Please?”

Taehyung sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “I really need to catch up on the curriculum here before I think about joining any clubs.”

“We can help you catch up,” says Hoseok, begging. “Please, Tae?” he says, and the nickname does something to soften Taehyung against his own will. “We’ve never gotten past the first round in the scholastic decathlon. You could be a godsend.”

Taehyung realizes he’s not going to be able to say no right now, not with Jung Hoseok gripping his hand and vibrating, so he doesn’t answer at all. Instead, he decides to change the subject, and before he can stop himself he blurts out the first thing on his mind. “What do you know about Jeon Jeongguk?”

Hoseok stills, hums, stroking his chin and folding his lips in a way that gives him dimples. “I’m not really an expert in that particular sub-species. Though,” he says, leading Taehyung by the arm to a nearby group of cheerleaders who are yelling the school chant at each other, “Maybe they will.” A couple of them look at Hoseok and Taehyung like they’re confused, but then Hoseok says “Isn’t Jeon Jeongguk just the hottie superbomb?” He says it sort of like a joke, like it’s a science experiment, but if someone asked Taehyung that question, he might be forced to say yes.

The cheerleaders agree with an eruption of screaming. Taehyung grins at them until Hoseok pulls him away, going, “Yeah, so, we don’t even speak the same language as the basketball boy.”

“Actually, have you talked to him?” asks Taehyung. “I don’t think he’s really like that.”

Hoseok sighs. “We can discuss this further tomorrow. At lunch. At practice for the scholastic decathlon. Unless you’d rather join the cheer squad? You seem limber enough.” He’s laughing the whole time, and he’s really genuine and Taehyung appreciates that. The last few days, he’s sat alone at lunch, and at the moment he actually thinks it would be nice to have a table. He doesn’t want to sit with the cheerleaders, though, and, not that he’s looked, but he doesn’t think Jeongguk hangs out in the lunchroom. So Hoseok’s his best option, and at the moment that sounds pretty nice. Hoseok is nice. His smile is infectious, makes Taehyung feel a little less like he’s alone in a sea of strangers just looking for an excuse to hate him. So, without committing to the scholastic decathlon, without making any promises, he gives in and nods.

⚾︎

“What a lovely day for detention,” lilts Bang, walking back and forth backstage, making sure Jeongguk and Jimin are painting set pieces theatrically enough. “I hope you don’t make a habit of it. Though, the drama club could always use an extra hand.” He steps daintily over a can that’s rolled near his feet and continues. “While we’re all here, let us probe the mounting evils of cell phones!”

Mr. Bang is long-winded. By the time he’s on his third _heinous example_ of cell phone abuse (ringing in the hallowed hall of the theatre), Jeongguk and Jimin are all but asleep in a big silly tree that is presumably part of the set for the upcoming _musicale_.

“What temerity!” shouts Bang, loud enough to startle Jeongguk from the nap he was about to take. He glances around and sees that below him, Jimin has actually dozed off, so he dangles a gaudy paper and pipe cleaner leaf in his face as Bang continues to extrapolate. “The theatre is a temple of art, a precious cornucopia of creative energy,” he bellows, adjusting his scarf and gesticulating. He makes to continue, but his stream is broken by the door to the theatre slamming open.

“Where’s my team, Bang?” Jeongguk’s dad is heard before he’s seen. Jeongguk can hear Jimin gasp awake below him, and then he feels a thump and hears Jimin hiss like he’s hit his head on something. His dad storms down the aisle, and now is in enough light for Jeongguk to make out how red-faced and angry he is. “And what the heck are those two doing in a tree?”

“It’s called _crime_ and _punishment_ , Jeon,” says Bang, clasping his hands together. “Besides, proximity to the arts is cleansing for the soul.”

“Can we have a talk please?” spits Jeongguk’s dad, every bit of humor lost on him. “And you two, in the gym, _now_.”

Jeongguk scrambles out of the prop, tugs at Jimins sleeve to make him go faster, and they hurry to practice amid Bang and Coach Jeon yelling at each other about special treatment.

⚾︎

“I still don’t understand this detention thing,” says Jeongguk’s dad over dinner. Sometimes Jeongguk wishes that his dad wasn’t his coach, wasn’t around to watch him all the time. Then he remembers how much he gets to practice, how much feedback he gets, how high the standard he’s expected to meet is, and he decides that it’s okay. It motivates him to be better. He just wishes… he wishes he could have a minute to himself, to be someone other than the basketball guy. And there’s that thought, eating at him again.

“Hey, dad?” he says, looking at his plate. He looks up and his dad’s looking at him like he’s ready for Jeongguk to go on, so he says, “Did you ever want to try something new, but were afraid of what your friends would think?”

“Like going left? You’re doing fine.”

Jeongguk shakes his head. He should have known that his dad wasn’t the right person to talk to about this. But who else is there? “Well, no,” he says. “I mean, what if you want to try something _really_ new. And you embarrass yourself, and your friends all laugh at you?”

“Well, then they’re not really your friends,” his dad says. He looks at Jeongguk knowingly, but Jeongguk’s almost positive that they’re talking about different things. “That was my whole point about team today,” he goes on, and there it is, the basketball stuff. Jeongguk doesn’t know when he got so bitter about this. Probably around the time he met Taehyung. No, this isn’t the time to think about that. “You gotta look out for each other, you’re the leader,” his dad continues. Jeongguk just nods.

“There’s gonna be college scouts at our game next week. Do you know what a scholarship is worth these days?”

“A lot,” mutters Jeongguk.

“You bet, kid. A lot.”

⚾︎

 “I trust we all learned our homeroom manners yesterday, correct?” asks Mr. Bang. “If not, we have some dressing rooms in _desperate_ need of painting.” He looks around in that way he has, eyes narrowed and challenging, then tosses his scarf in that way that’s almost definitely a tic before he goes on. “Good. So, a few announcements. This morning during free period will be your chance to audition for the winter _musicale_. I will be in the theatre until noon for those of you bold enough to extend the wingspan of your creative spirit.”

“When’s he due back on the mothership?” mutters Jimin, and Jeongguk makes a face. Bang’s eccentric but that’s sort of uncalled for.

But then, he starts in on the lecture. “Now, discussing the lasting importance of Shakespeare,” he begins, and even Jeongguk can’t take his own advice and be open-minded enough to listen. He doesn’t care about Shakespeare, and there’s so much on his mind that it’s hard to focus lately. He hadn’t known that auditions were _today_. It gives him weird butterflies to think about, and he realizes he’s seriously considering showing up. Just to see, not to really sing. Just to see what it’s like.

Free period comes around and Jeongguk’s feet carry him toward the theatre without any real decision making on the part of his brain. Though, it’s not surprising. He’s known all morning that he’d end up walking this way, just to see.

Jimin, though, catches him walking the other direction. “Hey! Why are you going this way?” he asks. “Team’s hitting the gym, what should we run?”

“I actually,” says Jeongguk unconvincingly, “I need to catch up on homework.”

“What?” asks Jimin. “It’s like the fourth day of the semester, I’m not even behind on homework yet. And I’ve been behind on homework since preschool.”

For lack of anything else to say, with no other defense, Jeongguk just says, “That’s hilarious. I’ll catch you later,” and runs the other way before he can hear Jimin mutter.

“Homework? There’s no way.”


	4. "what i've been looking for"

Taehyung hovers by the door to the auditorium. He can’t look inside, because if Mr. Bang sees him he’s not sure what will happen. He might make him sing, or say his name out loud, or otherwise humiliate him. Taehyung doesn’t want that attention; he doesn’t even know why he’s here, other than just a passing interest. He wants to see what kind of people are actually auditioning for this thing, and he’s kind of looking forward to the spectacle that’s sure to be Jin and Namjoon’s audition. Also, and this isn’t the main reason he’s here, but he’d be a liar if he said it wasn’t part of it, maybe Jeongguk will show up? Taehyung doesn’t think so, but what if he does?

He hasn’t really seen Jeongguk in a week, since that first day when they stood together in the hall and Jeongguk got very quiet and almost strange about knowing Taehyung at all. Of course, he’s _seen_ Jeongguk every day since then, in homeroom, and twice they’ve awkwardly waved at each other during passing periods, and there’s this huge poster of him hung up in one of the hallways. His face is printed on it so much larger than life and it’s almost scary and uncanny, but Taehyung keeps adjusting his route so that he can pass it as frequently as possible. It’s just a weird urge to look into his basketball-sized eyes, narrowed into sharp determination.

So he’s seen a lot of Jeongguk, but it’s all been flat and two-dimensional. In class he’s always doing this chest puffed-out thing, making a bunch of noise and holding his head confidently like he was just born to lead. The Jeongguk who seems careful, who seems to listen before speaking, that’s the person Taehyung hasn’t seen around much. And sure, maybe he’s projecting, because he barely knows the guy and at this point he’s got to admit that it’s a crush, which is its own problem for so many reasons, but Jeongguk really does seem like there’s more to him than he shows.  

So, here Taehyung is, hovering by the open door to the auditorium during free period, hiding from Bang and everyone else, but it’s definitely not because of Jeongguk. It’s just because he’s interested.

Nobody auditioning has really caught his interest so far, but the music is really good. Some of the auditions have been atrocious, some strange, and some have been really, really good. Better than he could ever be, so it’s okay. His regret at not giving this a shot is waning. They’ll be okay without him.

“So, you decided to sign up?” comes a quiet voice behind him.

He startles, covers his mouth against the scream that tries to escape, and turns around to see Jeongguk. The one he likes, the intent one, looking at him like he’s surprised and impressed to see him. Taehyung feels almost queasy at the sudden proximity. It’s jarring. He hates it, but he’s also kind of relieved to see him. Though, he might like him better if he’d come out from behind the janitor’s cart that he’s cowering behind. “No,” he whispers. “You? Why are you hiding behind a mop?”

“My friends don’t know I’m here,” says Jeongguk simply. He looks so anxious.

“The superstar’s afraid?” asks Taehyung, and immediately wants to punch himself in the face for how flirty it sounds. He’s not sure where Jeongguk stands on… anything, actually, and the last thing he wants to do is ruin a friendship he could have by being gross. Though, what they have isn’t really friendship, yet.

“No,” says Jeongguk defensively, pulling into that basketball star posture, but then he softens again. “I’m just,” he swallows. “Scared.”

“Me too,” admits Taehyung, “Usually.”

Bang’s harsh stage-voice carries through the doorway behind which now Taehyung and Jeongguk are both cowering, looking at each other a little oddly and smiling. “And for the lead roles, we only have two people signed up? Seokjin and Namjoon, I think it might be useful for you to give us all a sense of why we gather in this _hallowed hall_.”

Taehyung and Jeongguk look at each other again, sharing a silent joke, standing very close together. So close that Taehyung can feel Jeongguk’s body heat, and he wants to say something, do something, shove him away maybe or hit him or kiss him, but instead he just stands there, all muscles tensed and tight.

“What key?” asks a gruff and tired voice, and at this point it’s very hard not to peek inside, but Taehyung’s still terrified of being seen here, so he fights it for as long as he can.

“Oh, we had our rehearsal pianist do an arrangement,” comes Jin’s unmistakable voice.

“Great,” says the gruff voice flatly, like it doesn’t care or maybe like it’s trying not to care.

When the music starts, it’s not Taehyung who caves first and peeks inside, it’s Jeongguk, and he infuriatingly grabs Taehyung’s forearm almost like he’s doing it without thinking, tugging him around the doorframe and sliding surreptitiously into the very back seats of the theatre.

As Taehyung expected, it’s a spectacle. Jin’s wearing all black, a button down shirt open almost halfway with a loose ascot, grin pasted on his face, and Namjoon’s dressed similarly, though his shirt’s got a pattern and he’s wearing an ugly green hat. They’ve got a dance choreographed, and they hit the moves just fine, but they both look a little awkward up there. The lights on them are multicolored, changing with the poppy, upbeat music in a way that suggests a little too much rehearsal for an audition they’re already guaranteed to pass.

The dance is mostly centered around making Jin look good, with Namjoon as a glorified prop. They sing together, but Jin takes the melody with Namjoon harmonizing, and during the instrumental solo, Jin does a dance all the way around a bobbing Namjoon. There’s another part when Namjoon clumsily gets in the way of whatever it is that Jin’s trying to do, and he actually stops singing for half a line to glare at him. It’s amazing. Taehyung spares a stricken glance at Jeongguk next to him, whose eyes are huge and looks like he could be about to either laugh or cry.

Mr. Bang dances along from his podium, looking very impressed even from the back. And it's not that surprising; despite the pageantry, Jin is a really great singer and he owns the stage. Namjoon's good, too. He'd probably be better if he had a chance to shine, but instead he's doing a move where he leans over to prop Jin up to do a high kick. The pianist, the one with the gruff voice who has nothing to do since Jin and Namjoon are sacrilegiously using a recording, looks unimpressed and, frankly, a little scared. He’s a small dude, and when Namjoon dances too close to him, he cringes away so violently that he almost falls off his bench.

At the end of the song, Jin’s voice is audible. “I told you not to do the jazz squares.” It punctuates the entire last three minutes in such a perfect way that Taehyung snorts. Jeongguk looks at him imploringly, but nobody turns around, nobody looks at them. Everybody’s still caught up in what’s just happened in front of them, in Namjoon and Jin, who brushes white-blonde fringe out of his face and stands panting with a hip jutting out, waiting for consensus.

“Gorgeous,” says Bang, and it’s not much, but it almost means more than his usual pontificating. It’s concise. He loved it. Jin is pleased and he leads Namjoon out through the wing rather than taking the steps that lead off the side of the stage.

When the air settles, Bang inhales deeply and says, “Well! Any last minute sign-ups?” He pauses briefly before going on. “Don’t be discouraged! The theatre club needs more than just singers! We need fans! Buy tickets!”

It’s final, and he slaps his binder closed, releasing a cloud of old stage dust, and Taehyung‘s stomach only drops a few feet at the thought that he had his chance, that his chance was sitting right here next to him, and he let it slip away.

“So,” says the smallish piano boy. He’s not loud, but the theatre’s almost empty so his voice carries clearly to where Taehyung and Jeongguk are still sitting frozen, unable or unwilling to run away just yet. “If you do the part, I imagined it being,” he scoffs quietly, “slower.”

“ _If_ we do the part?” barks Jin. “Oh Yoongi, my sawed-off Sondheim. I’ve starred in _seventeen_ school productions.”

“Okay,” says Yoongi flatly.

Jin goes on, sly and evil and manipulative and oddly beautiful, like a falcon, getting right in Yoongi’s space. “And how many of your compositions have been selected?”

Yoongi exhales. “This is the first.”

“And that would tell you _what_?”

There’s an understated smile in Yoongi’s voice when he replies, “That I need to write you more solos?”

Jin mocks him before saying, “No, that you do not offer _direction_ , _suggestion_ , or _commentary_ , and that you should be _thankful_ that Namjoon and I are here to lift your _music_ out of its current obscurity. Are we clear?”

Taehyung can almost hear Yoongi roll his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

Jin’s voice gets overly sweet. “Great,” he coos, tugging at Namjoon’s sleeve and leading them out the side door.

Mr. Bang takes another big breath and gives Taehyung yet another chance to let slip away. “So, no last minute sign-ups?” he calls again into the now-empty theatre. “None? Good. Done.”

He’s too cowardly again, and this time Taehyung really does palpably regret it. But no, this is too providencial. He’s here, and he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want this, and he’ll regret it forever if he doesn’t speak _right now_.

“Actually, I’d like to audition,” he calls out suddenly, in a shaky voice, stepping out into the aisle by a force outside himself.

“Sorry,” says Bang. “Timeliness means something in the _theatre_. Singles auditions are long over, and there simply are no other pairs.” He says it like he’s happy to be denying this to Taehyung, this thing that’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.

“I’ll sing with him,” comes Jeongguk’s quiet voice, and Taehyung can’t help but sigh in relief. Not just that he doesn’t have to be alone, but that Jeongguk cares about him, just this much.

“Jeon Jeongguk?” asks Bang disbelievingly. “Where’s your sports posse, or whatever it’s called?”

“Team,” whispers Jeongguk, coming to stand behind Taehyung in the aisle, steadying at his shoulder. Then, a little louder, he says, “I’m here alone. Actually, I’m here to sing. With him.” Taehyung feels it when Jeongguk lets out a tight breath behind him.

“Unfortunately, we take these shows very seriously. I called for pairs, and you did not respond. Free period is now over.”

“He has an amazing voice,” says Jeongguk. Taehyung’s unfocused gaze snaps to his face. His mouth goes dry. Jeongguk isn’t looking up at Mr. Bang, at the dauntingly huge stage, he’s looking right at Taehyung. He means it.

“Perhaps the next _musicale_ ,” says Bang, and he sweeps past them down the aisle.

Taehyung hardly has a chance to search Jeongguk’s face before the composer, Yoongi, spills his sheet music everywhere. “Shit,” he mutters, scooping it all back up. “Long fuckin’ day. Long-ass day. Shit.”

Taehyung hurries up to the stage to help, and Jeongguk follows. Yoongi mutters thanks between barely audible grumbles.

“You wrote that song?” Jeongguk asks idly, systematically handing Yoongi his papers back. Yoongi just nods, arranging his folder properly. “You wrote the whole musical?”

Yoongi just grunts in the affirmative.

“Why are you so afraid of Jin?” asks Jeongguk, and that gets Yoongi actually talking.

“God, no, I’m not afraid of him,” he says. “See how confident he is if he runs into me on the street,” he spits. “No way. But he kind of owns my ass right now, you know?”

“Nah,” says Jeongguk. Taehyung just tries to stack Yoongi’s papers facing the right direction. “Isn’t the composer of a show kind of like a playmaker in basketball?”

“How should I know?” says Yoongi, clearly frustrated.

“You know, like, a playmaker,” tries Jeongguk again. The papers are all picked up now and Taehyung’s fighting a smile at the way Jeongguk’s just talking to Yoongi because he wants to. No obligation. Jeongguk is _nice_. “Yeah,” says Jeongguk again, gaining a little confidence in what he’s trying to say. “The one who makes everybody else look good. Without you there’s no show. Jin doesn’t matter. He’s not the one who made this show. You did.” He punctuates. “Playmaker.”

“Okay,” agrees Yoongi, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “You wanna hear what I actually wrote for that duet?”

Jeongguk looks honored. “Yeah,” he says, nodding. He crowds behind Yoongi on the bench and gestures for Taehyung to join him. When they’re all looking at the same sheet music and Yoongi starts playing, a delicate piano song that sounds almost nothing like Jin and Namjoon’s performance from before, Jeongguk rests his hand on Taehyung’s shoulder.

The words aren’t too complicated, the melody makes sense, and Yoongi guides them a little at first, but Jeongguk and Taehyung pick it up quickly.

So soon, they flow together, almost like that night at karaoke. Their voices wrap up and pull apart so naturally, so easily, and they each build off each other to gain confidence that they wouldn’t otherwise have. Taehyung can feel Jeongguk sing through the contact with his hand, and, he doesn’t know if it’s too weird or too much, but feeling Jeongguk sing feels very important to him after a few lines, so he wraps his arm around his waist and pulls them together. If anything, Jeongguk leans into the touch.

It feels natural and good, and it’s only Yoongi there instead of the entire teenage population of a ski lodge on New Year’s, and there’s something so quietly intimate and close about singing together this time. It’s over too soon.

As soon as the last notes fade out, Yoongi looks up at them disbelievingly. His eyes are narrowed like he’s trying to figure them out. Taehyung just grins. Then, he realizes he’s still got his arm around Jeongguk, and he pulls it back sharply and instinctively. He looks up at Jeongguk, who’s staring at him almost with the same look Yoongi’s giving him.

“Jeon, Kim, you have a callback,” comes Bang’s voice from the side door. Taehyung’s eyes widen at Jeongguk, and they both smile at each other. “Yoongi, give them the duet from the second act. Work on it with them.”

“Cool,” shoots Yoongi toward Bang’s voice, and he smiles at them, too. “Well, I’m free whenever.”


	5. "stick to the status quo"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi there. i know a few people reading this aren't very familiar with HSM, but this scene is just.... impossibly ridiculous. so if you haven't seen the movie or even if you just wanna have a nice laugh, watch [stick to the status quo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZYZpZr3Cv7I) before reading this chapter  
> thanks love you

The next morning, Jin’s scream can be heard from the other side of the building.

“What?” asks Namjoon pleasantly.

“Callback?” sputters Jin. “How? Tell me how?”

Namjoon peers at the list. _Callback for the lead roles in the Winter Musical, next Thursday, 3:30pm. Kim Seokjin and Kim Namjoon, Jeon Jeongguk and Kim Taehyung._

“Is this some kind of joke?” yells Jin, voice high and frantic. “They didn’t even _audition_.”

“I bet we’re being punked,” deadpans Namjoon.

Jin makes a strangled sound. “Shut up, Namjoon. I swear to god.”

Jimin comes up to them. “What’s up?” he says. “I could hear the ice prince yell from Bang’s room.”

Jin glares at Jimin, lips pursed, and shakes his head threateningly. They know each other, but not that well. He turns back to Namjoon. “How dare he sign up? I picked out the colors for my dressing room. Honestly, it’s inconsiderate. Someone’s got to tell him the rules.”

“Wait,” says Jimin, not quite caught up. “What are the rules?”

Jin scoffs. “He hasn’t even asked our permission to join the drama club. And just so you know, it’s not happening.” He grabs Namjoon by the sleeve to try to lose Jimin on the way to the lunchroom.

He follows them, but Jin pretends not to see him. Anyway, he forgets Jimin’s there pretty much immediately upon entering the lunchroom, because something is _happening_.

Jin walks up to the table where some of the basketball players are sitting. He’s not sure why he beelines there, maybe just to remind them that he’s still here, that he’s watching. Maybe to throw some pithy warning at them or tell them to watch Jeongguk more closely. What he walks up to is not a table of small sports boys who fear him, however. They’re all talking lowly about something that’s got them so enthralled that they don’t even notice his approach.

“Baskeball is great and everything,” says one of the boys. Jin thinks his name might be Ken? “But if Jeongguk can sing, then I guess I can tell my secret.”

Ken’s eyes flicker up to Jin for a second, but it doesn’t stop him. “I like to bake,” he says.

Jin snorts. That’s not a very good secret.

“For real?” asks one of the other basketball players.

“Yeah,” says Ken, getting more confident. “I bake. Strudels, scones, even apple pan dowdy.”

“What the fuck is apple pan dowdy?” spits Jin.

“It’s like pie. One day I hope to make the perfect creme brulee,” says Ken, looking up at Jin like he’s trying to tell him in particular.

Jin rolls his eyes. “Good for you,” he says. Then, because he feels oddly like he’s losing the reigns, he adds, “Keep an eye on Jeongguk, please.” It’s not as forceful or threatening as he means it to be, but it’s fine. The other basketball boys seem less than impressed with Ken, at least, so Jin decides to leave them to him. They can rip him to shreds like vultures, because that’s what they do. That’s what people like that are like. Convinced, then, that Ken’s in good hands, Jin turns on his heel and starts heading toward the staircase that leads to the second floor of the split-level lunchroom, where he likes to sit by the balcony railing and feel like a prince looking out over his domain.

However, before he can get there, someone else starts talking, voice pitched to carry, and he can’t help but get a sense that this is happening for his benefit.

“You know, I’m on the math team, but I’ve got a secret too,” says a girl in a pink button-down and thick glasses.

“Really?” asks another one of the math team members, but she’s terrible at pretending to be surprised. Jin has no idea what’s happening, but he hates it.

Jin stops near their table and gives them a look like he’s waiting for her to go on, like this is wasting important time. “Well?” he says.

“Hip-hop is my passion. I love to pop, and lock, and jam, and break.”

“Is that even legal?” asks the one who’s bad at acting. The rest of the table doesn’t seem to be any more in on what’s happening than Jin is, though, and a couple of them are giving the dancing girl looks like they want her to stop talking.

“What, it’s just dancing,” she says. “Sometimes I think it’s cooler than homework.”

“Shut up,” says Jin dramatically, and he doesn’t give her a chance to say anything else before he’s really hurrying to get upstairs to his table where he’s safe, where he’s in drama club and Jeongguk plays basketball and people like _Kim Taehyung_ sit quietly in the back of classrooms and do their homework without rocking the boat.

He hurries, but he doesn’t make it quite to the stairs before yet another person calls out, “If Jeongguk wants to be a singer, then I’m coming clean.”

“Not you too,” growls Jin, trying to look terrifying and in control.

“Yeah!” says the guy, who Jin always assumed was just a stoner with no desire to _ruin his life_. “I play the cello.”

“Great,” says Jin icily.

“Oh, cool!” says one of his stoner friends. Then he whispers, “What is it?”

The cello boy, whom Jin will never again acknowledge, mimes playing one. His friend says, “A saw!”

Jin’s done here. He turns to go and is sure he’s not just imagining laughter behind him.

He finally gets to the stairs and tries to go as fast as he can without losing composure, tugging Namjoon behind him by the sleeve. When they get to the top, Jin’s too frazzled to even unpack his lunch or stay still, he just goes to the balcony and leans over, watching everybody down there. He can’t make anything out through the din, but he’s sure they’re continuing to commit mutiny against him.

“This is not what I want,” he says to Namjoon, standing next to him scrolling through his phone. “I hate this. This is really,” he takes a breath.

“Yeah, it’s not right,” says Namjoon unconvincingly. Sometimes Jin wonders if he _even cares_.

“Shut the fuck up, Namjoon,” says Jin, and almost regrets it, almost for a second achieves perspective on the years of snappy remarks he’s directed at Namjoon, but not for long enough to let it get to him. “Really wrong,” he finishes.

He’s so restless that he can’t stay up there. Maybe he’ll go outside or something, maybe he’ll go punch one of the mannequins in the costume room. He just can’t be here, sitting at the top of a delicate pyramid that seems to be crumbling below him.

He gets to the bottom of the stairs just in time to catch the literal last person in the world with whom he’d choose to interact. The boy who’s usurping Jeongguk’s coveted attention, turning him into an enemy when he was once a very tentative friend, regardless of whatever intentions Jin may or may not playfully have for him. Like, of course Jin’s got a crush on Jeongguk, that’s obvious to anyone, but Jin’s realistic about that sort of thing. He flirts because he can get away with it, not because anything will come of it. Jeongguk’s straight, people like him aren’t into other boys. Except, apparently, Taehyung? Jin’s not jealous, except that he is. He’s so jealous. Taehyung seems to be affecting Jeongguk in ways that Jin was never able to, not to mention the fact that he’s trying to undermine everything Jin’s ever overcome or achieved. So yeah, Jin hates Taehyung, and seeing him at the bottom of the stairs with a tray of sloppy cafeteria food and Jung Hoseok at his side is a sorry sight right now.

“Why is everyone staring at you?” says Taehyung softly, to Hoseok.

“Not me,” Hoseok says, “You.”

“Why?” says Taehyung, perplexed. “Oh, because of the callback? I can’t have people staring at me right now, really,” he says, then he tries to turn around and leave, but since Jin’s right behind him he spills chili all over his nice pink button-down.

Jin makes a choked sob sound and flails for a second. “What the fuck?” he yells. “You ungrateful freak.”

“Oh no,” says Taehyung quietly, face pale and mouth slack like he understands exactly the extent to which he messed up. Hoseok is making a similar face, flitting around Taehyung like he’s not sure whether to comfort him or whisk him away or just run away and save himself.

Just as Jin’s starting to advance on them, though, whisper death threats that he actually means right now, a teacher hurries up to them. Probably she was alerted by the loud, garbled sound Jin made when Taehyung spilled hot trash down his shirt front. “What’s going on here?” she says.

“Look at this,” says Jin. “This Taehyung person just dumped his lunch on me!” Then, because no one can say he doesn’t take opportunities when they’re presented, he says, “On purpose! It’s all part of his plan to ruin my musical!” He takes a forlorn breath while Taehyung opens and closes his mouth in surprise. “It’s just not right.” That, there, is the culmination of all the years he’s been acting. Andrew Lloyd Weber almost certainly suddenly feels a bit sad in a way he can’t place.

⚾︎

“What’s up?” Says Jeongguk to Jimin, walking into the cafeteria to try and catch a couple of his teammates before fifth period.

“ _What’s Up_ ,” says Jimin. “What’s up? What’s up!” He barks out a laugh. “Listen, Kookie. What’s up is that you missed free period practice to audition for a heinous musical with the new boy and now people are telling their secrets.” He guides Jeongguk over to the table where a few of his teammates are sitting. “Look, Ken’s baking.”

Ken looks up at Jeongguk and says, “Yeah! Creme brulee.”

“What’s that?” asks Jeongguk. He’s not sure why this is a bad thing.

“Oh,” says Ken, a little taken aback at Jeongguk’s openness to the idea. “It’s a creamy pastry with a caramelized surface.” Jeongguk nods; that sounds good. “You should try it sometime, it’s really satisfying. I’ll make some next time you come over?”

“Shut up, Ken!” yells Jimin. Jeongguk gives him a look.

“Sounds good,” Jeongguk says to Ken, quietly enough to offset Jimin’s outburst. “You’re on.”

Jimin groans. “Do you see what’s happening here?” he says. “Our team is coming apart because of your big singing thing or whatever.” He sounds really mad, and if this is Jeongguk's best friend's reaction, he's terribly worried about what everyone else is going to think of him. It’s only been a day since the audition, and if this is already what’s happening to the school because of it, he’s not sure if he made the right decision. Not that it was a _decision_ , though. It was just supporting Taehyung when he needed it. Which, he decides, he’d do again if pressed. He just doesn’t want it to be such a _statement_. He doesn’t want to make statements, he doesn’t want people to pay attention to what he decides to do and with whom. He just wanted to sing with Taehyung yesterday morning, that’s all.

“Even the drama geeks and the brainiacs are mingling,” says Jimin. “Suddenly everybody thinks they can do different stuff. Stuff that’s not their stuff.”

“I really can’t hear this right now,” says Jeongguk with a big sigh, and he spots Taehyung across the room near Jin and walks away from Jimin to try to grab him and maybe get out of here together.

⚾︎

“Alright, Jeon,” says Mr. Bang, hovering in the doorway to the gym office after a difficult, smelly, and painstaking tiptoe through the locker room. “Cards on the table, right now.”

Coach Jeon, the oaf, turns around in his rolly chair (in an office that’s a lot bigger than Bang’s, he notices in impartial passing) and goes, “Huh?”

Bang has not the time for this. “You’re tweaked because I put your stars in detention and now you’re getting even.” Bang has seen enough plays, experienced enough drama and been affixed to his seat by enough plots of revenge to know this game.

However, Jeon plays the fool. “What are you talking about, Bang?” he says.

“ _Your_ all-star son showed up for my audition this morning,” he says matter-of-factly. “I give every student a fair chance -- a long and honorable tradition in the _theatre_ \-- but I’ll have you know, if he’s planning some kind of practical joke in my _temple of the arts_ ,”

“Jeongguk doesn’t even sing,” says Coach Jeon, the simpleton.

Mr. Bang shouldn’t be so surprised that the man in front of him hasn’t ever heard his son sing, or is playing to that effect, but with the kind of potential Jeongguk clearly has, his feathers are ruffled nonetheless. “You’re wrong about that,” he says chidingly. “But I will not allow my _Twinkle-Town Musicale_ to be made into farce.”

“Twinkle Town?” says Jeon like he knows something about theatre and has the qualifications to judge a piece of art based on the name alone. Truly, Jeon’s almost certainly never even _seen_ a musical live, likely never even seen _Singin’ in the Rain_ , or any other easily digestible classic musical film, fit even for virgins of the arts. It’s not Jeon’s place to decide whether _Twinkle Town_ has dignity.

“I knew it,” he says simply.

“Sounds like a winner,” says Coach Jeon, rubbing salt in the wound. “Good luck on Broadway!”

Bang can’t stand the audacity, stemming, of course, from the fact that the basketball team is well-enough funded to have gotten made a completely superfluous floor-to-ceiling poster of the precise student who has suddenly gone from a thorn in Bang’s side to a real threat toward his livelihood. Of course Jeon can mock everything Bang’s ever worked for, cared for, all the students he’s held tenderly and helped to bloom into full-fledged thespians. Jeon’s never coaxed a flower open in his life, he’s too busy cutting them into easy bouquets and saying “look at me!” He’s a scourge, and Bang can no longer stand being in his presence in this filthy gymnasium office. So he scoffs a final time, tosses his scarf over his shoulder, and stomps back to the safety of his theatre.

⚾︎

“Is Jin really, really mad at me?” asks Taehyung to Hoseok in the math room. “I said I was sorry.” He really did, and he really meant it. He’d never ruin Jin’s clothes on purpose; he’s far too young to die.

“Look,” says Hoseok, surprisingly caught up on the school’s gossip for someone who spends almost all his free time poring over math problems. That might be why Taehyung likes him so much already -- he’s surprising. “Nobody’s ever beat Jin out for a musical before.”

“I wasn’t trying to beat anyone out,” Taehyung says defensively. “I haven’t even beat him out. And we didn’t even audition, we were just singing.”

Hoseok laughs. “You think you’re gonna convince Jin of that? If he could play both Hamlet and Laertes, his own cousin would be aced out of a role.”

“Oh, Namjoon’s his cousin?”

“Unfortunately. Seems like a nice guy, but Jin kind of owns him.”

Taehyung’s sorry, he’d like to talk more about Jin’s family tree some other time, but he’s coming to terms with the fact that this is _real_ , that he’s actually got a callback for a musical, and it’s strange and really scary, but actually, “You know, it was kind of an accident, but I liked it.”

Hoseok looks at him like he’s trying hard to understand.

Taehyung sighs, resting his face on his hand at the table. “Do you ever feel like there’s so much inside you that’s ready to come out?” He didn’t really mean to say _come out_ , but Hoseok doesn’t seem phased. It’s just the singing thing, that’s all.

“Not really,” he says, but it’s kind. “I hope it all works out, though. With the singing. And,” he does that wide smile that gives him dimples. “With Jeongguk, too.”

“Oh,” says Taehyung. “That’s not--”

“It’s okay if it is. I just hope it all works out. And I have your back either way.”

The bell rings just as Taehyung says, “Thank you.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Hey, Jin?” says Ken quietly, having approached so meekly that he almost startled Jin, which would be awfully unbecoming. Jin gives him a look that says he’s allowed to continue. “I thought that since Jeongguk’s going to be in your show,” he starts.

“Okay,” says Jin, “Don’t get it fucked up. Jeongguk is  _ not _ in my show.” 

“Well,” says Ken, stuttering nervously. A nervous laugh falls out of his mouth. “Either way, I thought maybe you could watch me play ball sometime?” 

Jin laughs. He can’t help it; that’s ridiculous. “I’d rather stick pins in my eyes? But thanks.” 

“Wouldn’t that be awfully uncomfortable?” says Ken, a little wry but mostly nervous. 

Jin doesn’t have time for this with Ken right now. “Evaporate,” he says, and he pushes Ken out of the way and heads down the hall.

He’s not quite out of earshot when he hears a mutter. “I bake, if that helps.”

It’s a cute attempt, but Jin’s too busy exacting revenge to think about basketball boys who aren’t Jeongguk right now. He’s busy, and he’s off sweets anyway for a while to slim down for his upcoming starring role in the school musical. He heads toward the drama classroom, where he’s meeting Namjoon to talk logistics. 

⚾︎

Jeongguk finds Taehyung in the math classroom with Hoseok. He didn’t follow them, or anything, but he knew where they’d be going, because he looked up where the scholastic decathlon team meets to practice, because… because he wanted to know where to find Taehyung if he ever had a real reason to. 

It’s hard to go in there at first. He doesn’t even really know why he’s so drawn to Taehyung right now. He just looked so scared when Jin rounded on him, Jeongguk wants to do something. He wants to be there. He walks in a circle around the hall twice before he decides that he doesn’t have to have an explanation, that he just wants to see Taehyung, he wants to be alone with him even if it’s just for the last ten minutes of lunch. He’s allowed to want that. 

When he gently opens the door, he finds the two of them in there alone, Taehyung still a little dazed, and Hoseok smiles up at him in a way that’s a little defensive but not unwelcoming. 

“Hey,” says Jeongguk quietly. “Hey, Taehyung?” 

Taehyung looks up at him with wide eyes and his face lights up like he’s glad to see him there. “Hi,” he says. “How are you?” 

Jeongguk smiles back and hopes it’s got even a little bit of the warmth that Taehyung’s had. “I’m good. Do you want to come somewhere with me?” 

Taehyung looks to Hoseok like he’s surprised and maybe impressed. Hoseok looks back at him, telling him to go ahead. Jeongguk stands there, waiting, hoping he hasn’t misjudged this thing. Maybe Taehyung just really likes duets? Maybe he’s like this with everyone. Maybe he’s just trying to spend time with Jeongguk because he’s new in town and Jeongguk’s popular. He doesn’t seem like the type to be that way, though, like Jin is and like some of the people he tangentially knows can be sometimes. Taehyung seems like he actively  _ doesn’t _ want to be popular, he seems a little stressed to be noticed at all, but he still looks up at Jeongguk and his smile turns into something more bashful. He gets up and comes to meet him. 

“See you after school,” he says to Hoseok, voice a little hoarse, and lets Jeongguk lead him to his secret place. 

Just on the roof of this building there’s a small greenhouse, and it’s someplace Jeongguk has never taken anybody else before. Technically, it’s public, but it’s a pretty well-kept secret, and Jeongguk only knows about it because his dad mentioned it in passing once. This year, it’s become his favorite place to come and sit and take a breath by himself. That’s why he’s never brought anybody up here -- nobody really lets him forget who he is, even for a moment. But Taehyung does. Taehyung never expects him to be anything, so Jeongguk’s glad to share this with him.

“It’s like a jungle up here,” Taehyung says, touching a hanging vine tenderly with a pretty hand. 

“Yeah,” says Jeongguk. “Just like that cafeteria.” 

“You saw that? What I did to Jin?” Taehyung laughs airily. “It’s been nice knowing you, I guess.” He takes a step away and inspects another plant. “It’s nice up here.” He leans against a wall and leans in to squint at a tiny flower that’s starting to form in one of the shelved pots. “Never would have guessed this was here. You know everything about this school, huh?” 

“Not everything,” Jeongguk says. 

“Seems like it,” says Taehyung. “Everybody wants to talk to you all the time.” He’s probably imagining things, but Jeongguk thinks he might hear some jealousy.

“Unless we lose,” he says. Cringes at himself for how lame that sounds, but it’s true. 

“Must be hard being the coach’s son,” says Taehyung. He’s not looking at Jeongguk, he’s focusing so hard on his tiny flower that Jeongguk wonders if he’s avoiding eye contact. 

Jeongguk almost reaches out, almost brushes the back of Taehyung’s hand to tell him it’s okay to relax. That’s the point of this place. That’s why he brought him up here. This is where he comes to just let it all go and be who he is without being afraid of what people think, and he thought Taehyung needed that right now, so he brought him here. He wants to pull him in and get really close and say something that helps. But he doesn’t, he just says, “Makes practice harder, I guess. I don’t know what he’ll say about the singing, or,” 

“Are you worried?” says Taehyung, looking up at Jeongguk for a split second and then nervously looking back down.

Jeongguk looks away from Taehyung, looks out the balcony over the quad. He says, “My parents’ friends are always saying,  _ your son’s the basketball guy, you must be so proud _ .” Saying that tastes bitter in his mouth. “Sometimes I don’t wanna be  _ the basketball guy _ . I just wanna be… I just wanna be a guy sometimes. You know?” 

Taehyung looks up at him, and this time doesn’t look back down. “I know,” he says quietly, low voice almost fading into the hum of the fans. “I saw the way you treated Yoongi at the audition yesterday,” he says. “Do your friends know that guy?” 

Jeongguk groans. “Ah, no. I’m not that person to them.” 

“They don’t know enough about you, then,” says Taehyung, and he might be moving toward Jeongguk, just a little. “At my other schools I was the freaky math boy. It’s nice coming here and being anything I want. When we sing together, I just feel like,” he sighs, breaks eye contact, shies away a little. “Yeah, just like a guy.” 

“You even look like one,” says Jeongguk, always ready to ruin a good moment.

Taehyung smiles, though, and laughs a little, and some of the tension dissipates. It’s just enough for Taehyung to take a step toward Jeongguk, for real this time, and Jeongguk takes a step toward Taehyung to meet him, and then it’s nothing either one of them does but more something they do together, like when they sing, like when their voices intertwine and it’s happening through them rather than by them. When their lips meet it’s easy and natural like that. 

The first one isn’t long, it’s more of a question. They pull apart, though, and look at each other, and then Taehyung wraps his arms around Jeongguk’s waist and clasps them behind him. Taehyung leans in again, but doesn’t quite touch Jeongguk’s mouth, just breathes on him, warm and close, until Jeongguk closes the gap and they go in again, this time sure and deep. Taehyung’s mouth is soft, pliant, and tastes minty, and Jeongguk wonders for a second if he ate a mint because he expected this to happen, but then Taehyung’s holding him tighter than before, kissing him harder, and Jeongguk responds, gripping Taehyung’s back and letting himself be leaned against the wall. Taehyung’s hand comes to rest at Jeongguk’s hip, and when he pulls away to take a breath, Jeongguk’s eyes flutter open and he sees Taehyung looking at him thoughtfully, biting his lip. Jeongguk leans in again and kisses Taehyung again softer. 

Taehyung pulls away. He kisses Jeongguk on the nose and says, “I was so worried.” 

“Me, too,” says Jeongguk. When Taehyung rests his face on his shoulder, hair brushing his cheek, he asks, “Do you really want to do the callback?”

Taehyung adjusts his head so he can look upward into Jeongguk’s eye. “Yep,” he says softly. “Just call me freaky callback boy.” He stands back up and leans in to kiss Jeongguk once more, like he can’t quite pull away yet, a little more than a peck. “You’re a cool guy, Jeongguk,” he says. “Not because of the basketball, though.” 

The bell rings then, and they both groan and Jeongguk hugs Taehyung hard before they have to let go and part for class. 

⚾︎

They start practicing in earnest for the callback. It’s not a lot of time to prepare, only a few days, so they have to put all the free time they can find toward it. One day, they don’t have enough time during lunch to finish working out a harmony, so they meet for three minutes during passing period to finish. In the end, they’re both late for class, but the warnings are worth it. 

Jeongguk also has to make some decisions. To be prepared for the callback, he’s got to focus. And he’s got to be prepared, there’s no other choice now. Everyone at school knows that he’s singing with Taehyung. His dad knows about it. He never meant to turn this into something that he had to prove, but that’s what it is now. So he’s got to make it worthwhile, at least. 

Not that he’s really complaining; spending time with Taehyung is welcome, now that there’s thing confirmed between them. He tries at first to keep it quiet, just between them, just in the small moments when they’re practicing without Yoongi, but those are rare. 

Yoongi, though, catches on. He clearly tries to be graceful about it. He says, “I don’t know if you guys are really dating, but your chemistry’s good. Good for the song, I mean.” 

Taehyung’s head snaps up and his hand instinctively comes off Jeongguk’s back. Jeongguk swallows, looks to Taehyung, who’s staring blankly at Yoongi like he’s waiting for something else to happen.

“I don’t care if you are,” says Yoongi shortly, looking back to his sheet music. “You sing it like you mean it, at least. Better than the Kims. If I have to see Jin smize one more fucking time, I’m gonna kill him.” He looks at Jeongguk and Taehyung. “No big deal either way. Just don’t smize and we’re cool.” 

So from then on, practicing with Yoongi, they let their guard down and stand close and hold hands. They don’t kiss in front of him; they mostly haven’t kissed since the first time, but that’s just because there’s no time. Jeongguk’s even sacrificing some of his basketball time for this. On one day, he doesn’t go to practice at all. 

It’s Wednesday, his dad’s admin day, and usually he leaves them alone to practice until toward the end. As a team, they’re a well-oiled machine. With Jeongguk in the lead and Jimin backing him up, they don’t really need coach breathing down their necks all the time. They know what’s expected of them, and they do it. Jeongguk doesn’t feel so bad about missing a day, because everybody misses practice every once in a while. In fact, Jeongguk’s dad’s got a strict GPA policy that’s kept a couple of the players out of practice, Ken and Hongbin mostly, catching up on homework in the library instead of spending time with the team. Jeongguk’s never missed practice, though, except that time last year when he got a flu that knocked him out for a week. Short of major illness, he’ll show up and do his best. So, he thinks, he’s earned a day off. Callbacks are the day after tomorrow, and Taehyung’s mom is coming to pick him up at 4, and they really need this time. So they practice with Yoongi, leaning in close and listening to his little bits of feedback to make their harmonies tighter, their articulation better, their notes swell more like how Yoongi imagined it when he composed this.

When Taehyung leaves, Jeongguk does kiss him, though it’s fleeting and it’s just right when Taehyung’s got to hurry and turn to go. But he had to, right then. Taehyung’s voice is beautiful, and the way the light in from the tall window in the dim classroom shines on his hair is beautiful, and his hand is warm and his eyes are big and brown and so expressive when they sing together. Jeongguk doesn’t have to pretend to feel something when he sings this song. The amount that he feels when he sings this song is overwhelming.

This kiss is soft, and light and cool, but Taehyung leans into him, and he grabs a handful of Jeongguk’s shirt as he pulls away. His eyes are closed, he hovers there still for a moment. Then he blinks at Jeongguk, leans in again and kisses his cheek and says a little huskily, “I’ve really gotta go.” 

“Me too,” says Jeongguk quietly. “Practice.”

“Good luck out there,” says Taehyung, then he really does leave. 

He sits there in a daze for a moment, forgetting Yoongi’s even there until he mumbles. “Wanna run over it again, or should I pack up?” 

⚾︎

When Jeongguk gets to practice, it’s a little later than he planned. His dad’s there, and the team is just breaking, and Jeongguk knows he’s fucked up. “I’m just gonna stay for a little while,” he says to his feet when coach levels him with a look, “And work on my free-throws.”

“Yeah, I think the team deserves a little effort from you today,” is the spit reply he gets, then his dad throws a ball at him hard and walks out, leaving Jeongguk alone in the gym. 

He only gets a couple shots in before the door opens gingerly, and Jeongguk thinks Jimin’s back or something, but when he turns, it’s Taehyung.

“Oh?” says Jeongguk. Taehyung looks embarrassed to be here. 

“Hey,” he says. “I went to wait for my mom, but she texted me that they’re keeping her late at work. I tried to text you but then I realized you probably don’t bring your phone to practice. So I came here.” 

“Well hi,” says Jeongguk, and he tosses a basket, maybe just to show off. Even with all the frustration basketball’s been causing him, it’s still something he’s pretty good at. He hazards a smirk. 

Taehyung laughs, not because anything is funny, maybe just because he’s happy. “So this is your real stage,” he says, poking fun at Jeongguk’s performance. 

“Guess you could call it that,” says Jeongguk smugly. “Or just a smelly gym.”

Taehyung grins and holds out his hands for the ball. Jeongguk tosses it to him, and he really shouldn’t because Taehyung’s not on the team, and he’s still wearing the blue shirt that sometimes strains against his shoulders when he moves, and jeans, and Jeongguk should be practicing, but he does. Taehyung dribbles the ball a little awkwardly and then shoots a really clean three-pointer with a tongue-out concentration face. 

That’s impressive, or maybe Jeongguk’s just enamored, but he says, “Whoa! Don’t tell me you’re good at hoops too?” 

Taehyung holds the ball under an arm and says, very seriously, “Oh, yeah. Once, I scored 41 points in a league championship game.” 

“Wait,” says Jeongguk. “Really?”

Taehyung presses his eyes closed and nods sagely. “Oh yes. And then I invented microwave popcorn and um. Went to space.” 

“Oh, space! Popcorn, cool,” says Jeongguk, laugh bubbling up now. “You’re funny.” 

“I’ve been rehearsing with Yoongi!” Taehyung says. “I mean, you knew that. But I caught him before he ran off and we went over the bridge again.” 

Jeongguk steals a glance at Taehyung, but Taehyung’s already looking at him and he raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement. Jeongguk realizes he doesn’t have to steal glances anymore, so he smiles back and he says, “Song’s really coming along.” 

“I think so, too,” says Taehyung, still holding Jeongguk’s basketball. Then he grabs it with two hands and bounces it twice. Jeongguk holds out his hands for Taehyung to throw it to him, but instead he starts faking him out. It’s very much against the rules of basketball, but it’s cute the way Taehyung’s face scrunches up while he laughs and tries to skirt away from Jeongguk.

Jeongguk advances on him to get the ball, but Taehyung squawks and ducks away at the last second. “That’s travelling!” Jeongguk says, lunging after Taehyung, giggling and trying to get away. “That’s really bad travelling,” says Jeongguk, finally capturing Taehyung. 

He grabs him from the back and grips him around his waist, and Taehyung says “No!” as soon as he’s caught, but leans into it and adjusts the way he’s holding the basketball for Jeongguk to hold him better, and they’re both panting and laughing and leaning on each other in the split second when Jeongguk’s dad walks back into the gym. 

“Sir, I’m sorry, but this is a closed practice,” he says, startling them apart, as coldly as Jeongguk’s ever heard him. 

“Dad, practice is over,” says Jeongguk, breath caught in his throat. Taehyung looks horrified. Jeongguk wants to comfort him. 

“Not until the last player leaves. Team rule.” He’s standing stiffly, large, imposing, and Jeongguk feels cold in his shadow. 

Taehyung’s blinking at the wall when he mutters, “I’m sorry, sir.” 

“Dad,” says Jeongguk, finding a strength in the face of big trouble that he didn’t know he had, “This is Kim Taehyung.” 

Taehyung wilts under the glare Jeongguk’s dad levels at him then. “Your detention buddy?” he says. 

Taehyung hiccups and starts to leave. “I’ll see you later, Jeongguk,” he mutters, and Jeongguk’s positive that everything’s ruined now, but that just makes him want to fight back even harder. Before leaving the gym, even though he looks gaunt and sad, Taehyung has the grace to say, “Nice meeting you, Coach Jeon.”

“You as well, Mr. Kim,” says Jeongguk’s dad, but it’s rude and mean and just makes Taehyung slip away quicker. 

“Detention was my fault, not his,” says Jeongguk stonily when the door closes behind Taehyung and Jeongguk’s dad looks at him for an explanation. 

“You haven’t missed practice in years, and suddenly  _ this boy _ shows up,” starts Jeongguk’s dad, and Jeongguk runs a hand through his hair. Here it is.

“ _ That boy _ is called Taehyung,” he says, voice surer than he thought it would be when having this conversation. It gets softer when he says, “And he’s nice.” 

“Sneaking around like this doesn’t make him nice,” says his dad.

“He’s not a problem,” says Jeongguk. He says it and it feels very true. “He’s just a guy.”

“But you are not just a guy, Jeongguk,” says his dad. “You’re the leader of this team, and what you do affects not only your team but this entire school.” He says that like he’s proving a point that goes deeper than basketball, and Jeongguk just wishes he’d been receptive to subtlety when Jeongguk tried to talk about this before. “Without you completely focused, we’re not gonna win next week. Championship games, they don’t come around all the time. They’re special.”

“A lot of things are special, Dad,” says Jeongguk, thinking about singing, and Taehyung’s neck, and beating Jin and being proud of who he is. 

“But you’re a playmaker,” says his dad. “Not a singer. Not, not this.” 

“I can be both,” says Jeongguk, and he gives his dad the same glare that he’s been getting this whole time, and they stare each other down for a tense moment until Jeongguk’s dad turns away.

“Get back to those free-throws,” he says. 


	7. "when there was me & you"

“What spell has this elevated-IQ math-singer boy cast that suddenly makes you want to be in a musical?” asks Jimin, a little too loudly for the library. He followed Jeongguk here and has mostly been acting like he’s never been in a quiet place before. Which might be true. He lacks volume control in a very legitimate way.

“Look,” says Jeongguk quietly, “I just did it. Who cares?”

Jimin groans and it echoes between bookshelves. “Who cares? What about your most loyal best friend?”

The librarian peeks her head around and gives Jimin a disappointed look. “Quiet in here, Mr. Park,” she says.

“It’s him, not me,” says Jimin, gesturing to Jeongguk with the basketball that he’s still carrying around after lunchtime practice. “Look,” he says, turning back to Jeongguk. “You’re a _hoops dude_ , not a musical singer person.” Jeongguk winces, he’s so tired of hearing that, but Jimin doesn’t notice. He just keeps talking. “Have you ever seen Michael Crawford on a cereal box?”

“Who’s that?” asks Jeongguk.

“ _My point exactly_ ,” says Jimin, like he’s so wise. “He was the Phantom of the Opera on Broadway. My mom has seen that musical 27 times, and she has pictures of him in our refrigerator. Not on it. In it.”

Jeongguk tries to give Jimin a look, but Jimin’s not paying attention. What his mom does doesn’t affect Jeongguk at all, and it doesn’t change anything about the callbacks. Still, Jimin goes on. “So my point is, if you play basketball, you’ll end up on cereal boxes, and if you sing in musicals you’ll end up in my mom’s refrigerator.”

Jeongguk quietly says, “I can do both,” and it feels like broken record but it doesn’t matter because Jimin doesn’t even hear him. He’s performing a soliloquy here, and Jeongguk’s not part of it.

Jimin follows him when he finds the aisle he’s looking for, hunting down a book Yoongi suggested on sight-reading music. He’s even louder when he says, “How can we expect to win the championship game if you and your boyfriend are off somewhere in leotards singing Twinkle Town?” He says _boyfriend_ with the same sarcastic mirth as _Twinkle Town_ , still not really getting that this is not a joke for Jeongguk. He tries to shoot Jimin another nasty look, but of course he doesn’t catch it.

“No one said anything about leotards,” is all Jeongguk has it in him to reply.

“Not yet, maybe, but just you wait.”

The librarian finds them again, right when Jeongguk pulls the book he wanted from one of the lower shelves, and gives Jimin another disapproving tut. Jimin heaves a dramatic sigh, pats Jeongguk on the back so suddenly that he startles, and says, “I tried to tell him.” He gives Jeongguk a meaningful look. “I really did.”

⚾︎

Jeongguk tried hard to think nothing of it when he walked past the open door of the science room, glanced in, and saw Jimin, Jin, Namjoon, and Hoseok all suddenly silent and looking guiltily up at him and Taehyung. Hoseok had done that disarming grin, though, and waved, and he and Taehyung had been in a real hurry to meet Yoongi to finish tightening up some timing, so he’d tried really hard to think nothing of it.

The thought had lingered, though, in the back of his head, that maybe something weird was up. Jin and Hoseok shouldn’t be talking; their only common thread is Taehyung. And Jin hates Jimin. Despises him, maybe almost as much as he hates Taehyung. So it seems like all of them gathered in the same place might bespeak dirty business, but there’s also the chance that it doesn’t. Things are changing pretty rapidly at this school. Where cliques were once rigid, kids with different interests are starting to interact more now. The lunchroom doesn’t organize itself in clusters anymore. Add to that the fact that kids keep coming up to Jeongguk in the halls or before class and telling him about the big secret they’ve opened up to their friends about, all inspired by Jeongguk’s bravery. Ken told everyone about his baking thing, and one kid told Jeongguk that she read a poem she wrote to her friends. They all really liked it, apparently. Jeongguk never wanted to make a statement, not with the singing and not with Taehyung, but he has, and it’s started a lot of change.

So, Hoseok and Jimin and the Kims could be all clustered in the science room going dead silent and guilty when Jeongguk and Taehyung walk by just because they’re reconciling, but that still doesn’t seem likely. Either way, Jeongguk and Taehyung have a lot of work to do on this song if they want it to be worth half the trouble it’s caused, so he can’t focus on anything else right now.

That is, until Jeongguk gets to basketball practice that afternoon and finds his whole team waiting for him in the locker room.

Jimin doesn’t spare a second, he just starts chucking words at Jeongguk. “‘Spider’ Bill Natrine,” he says authoritatively, “Class of ‘72.” Jeongguk doesn’t immediately register those as words that fit together. Someone hands Jimin a convenient framed photograph of a strong-jawed, little-eyed man in a Wildcats jersey. “He was the MVP in the league championship game.” Jimin puts the photograph down and is handed another, which he holds up to show Jeongguk.

“Sam Nedler, class of ‘02,” he says. “Also known as _Sammy Slamma Jamma_.” That nickname is stupid; Jeongguk tries to laugh, but the terror of whatever this situation is keeps it from happening. It comes out as a defeated huff of breath and Jimin continues, still confusing. “Captain, MVP of the league championship game.”

“Guys, what is this?” says Jeongguk weakly.

Nobody acknowledges him. Jimin just barrels on like he knows best. “The _Thunder Clap_ Hap Hadden, ‘95,” he says, “led the Wildcats to back-to-back city championships.”

“A legend,” says Ken.

“Legends one and all,” says Jimin, well-enough rehearsed that Jeongguk thinks for an ironic second that he should really try acting, “But do you think any of these Wildcats legends became legends by getting involved,” and Jeongguk winces hard against what he suddenly realizes is coming, “in musical auditions mere days before the league championships?”

“Guys,” says Jeongguk weakly, blushing and horrified and self-loathing in front of this team he’s worked so hard to lead.

“No,” says Jimin, quietly, with effect. “These Wildcats became legends because they never took their eye off the prize.” Then he gets loud again. “Who was the first sophomore ever to make starting varsity?”

“Jeongguk!” says everybody else in unison, and this is so well-rehearsed and so against all Jeongguk’s defenses that he can’t help but feel incredibly betrayed.

“So who voted him team captain this year?”

“Us!” everybody yells.

“But who is gonna get our _butts kicked_ in that game if Jeongguk’s worried about an audition?”

“We are,” says Jeongguk’s team weakly.

“Guys,” says Jeongguk, finding his voice, feeling very attacked, “Come on, there’s 12 people on this team.” It’s not just him.

“Just twelve?” says Jimin. “I think you’re forgetting someone very important.”

Jimin holds up a photo. Jeongguk sighs. “My dad.”

“Yeah, Jeongguk. Wildcat basketball champion, class of 1981. Champion, father, and now our coach. It’s a winning tradition like no other.”

⚾︎

“From lowly Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon,” says Hoseok into the classroom, voice low and spooky, lights dim, like he’s building up to something exciting, “to early warriors and medieval knights; human civilization reaches its pinnacle in,” and then someone raises the dimmer on the lights and Hoseok presents, “Basketball.”

Revealed is a big poster of someone making a slam-dunk, but Jeongguk’s face is pasted on it, and Taehyung’s not sure this is fun anymore. When Hoseok brought him here, he said he had something to show him. He made it seem like it might be educational or interesting or some project he’s been working on. Taehyung didn’t think it would be a mean picture of the boy he likes. He doesn’t say anything, just sits on his hands and sighs.

“Yes, our culture has worshipped the aggressor throughout the ages,” says Hoseok. “So we’ve wound up idolizing spoiled, birdbrained athletes whose only contributions to society are baskets and touchdowns. This is the inevitable world of Jeon Jeongguk.”

Taehyung doesn’t react. He just lets Hoseok get it over with. “But the path of the mind, the path we’re on,” says Hoseok, “has brought us so many important minds who the world reveres.”

Taehyung sees what’s happening now and he thinks he’s seen all he needs to. Sometimes, people are all the same, even when they seem like they’re going to be different. Taehyung doesn’t want to look at Hoseok’s face right now. “You know, I’ve got Yoongi waiting for me to rehearse,” he says.

He gets up to go, but Hoseok yells. “Tae!” Taehyung turns back. “Jeongguk represents one side of evolution, and our side, the side of education and accomplishment, is the future of civilization.” Taehyung glares at Hoseok, who is messing with a laptop now and holding up a finger begging him not to go.

⚾︎

“Guys,” says Jeongguk, trapped in a corner with nothing to do but try to placate his team before they eat him alive, “If you don’t know that I’m going to give 100% of myself to that game, then you don’t know me.” He says it sharply, like he means it, and he does. He cares about basketball; this was never about not caring about basketball.

“We just thought,” starts Jimin.

“I’ll tell you what I thought,” says Jeongguk, channeling the playmaker guy and sounding self-assured even though he feels so incredibly small. “I thought that you’re my friends, my teammates. Win together, lose together.”

“But suddenly,” says Jimin, “The singing, this _boy_?” Jeongguk sees him fiddling with something, but he doesn’t know what it is.

“Man, I’m for the team,” says Jeongguk. “I’ve always been for the team. He’s just someone I met, alright?” Jeongguk hates himself for this, for denying this, but he’s going to lose the respect of his team if he doesn’t prove to them that basketball comes first. So he channels the playmaker and grits out the words that hurt him. “The singing is not important. It doesn’t mean anything to me. Taehyung isn’t important.” That’s such a lie, and he’s grimacing but he’s still talking because what else can he possibly say right now, after all this? “I’ll forget about him. I’ll forget it and we’ll get the championship, okay? Are you all happy now?”

⚾︎

Hoseok closes the laptop slowly but the image of Jeongguk is still in Taehyung’s vision. Maybe the tears that welled up in his eyes trapped it in? He wonders how many times Jeongguk’s said those things, how many times he’s said that Taehyung _isn’t important_ , how many people have heard that about him. Sometimes you think people are going to be different, but they aren’t. They’re all exactly the same.

“Behold,” says Hoseok, mouth a flat line like this is hard for him. Like he understands, but he doesn’t. It’s all Taehyung can do not to break down right here. “We’d love to have you for the scholastic decathlon,” says Hoseok quietly.

Taehyung supposes that, since they’re not doing the audition anymore, he might as well, so he nods vaguely and turns to go. Hoseok says, “Did you want to grab some lunch?” Taehyung hiccups, rubs at an eye, and shakes his head. As he’s out the door, he hears, called after him, “You know where to find us.”

⚾︎

During lunch, the halls are really empty. Just about everybody goes to the cafeteria, or outside since the weather’s so nice. Taehyung thinks about going to the quad, sitting under a tree or something, but the school pride is overwhelming. People are yelling and chanting and throwing basketballs back and forth. He thought it would die down after the first week, but it hasn’t yet. It must be the big game coming up, or maybe people are just really proud of this school. He doesn’t care, though, he can’t. This is his fourth high school. He thought he’d be able to settle here, but at this point he’s hoping his mom’s company goes back on their word to her and makes him move again fast. He doesn’t want to be here anymore, hearing people scream the name of the team that Jeongguk’s going to lead to victory. He was such an idiot for thinking that could ever work. That he was good enough for that.

So he doesn’t go outside, and he doesn’t go to the cafeteria where Hoseok and the rest of the math team are going to be sitting, and he doesn’t go to the greenhouse where he and Jeongguk first kissed, even though he could use the comforting feeling of a place like that right now. He tries to sit against a wall of lockers and can’t stand being still, and isn’t interested in his lunch anyway, so he dumps it and just walks around, trying to get his mind somewhere else.

He can’t let go of the fact that everybody knew all along. That Taehyung, new at school and weird and unaware of the social customs here, blundered in and pissed off the ice queen and acted like he could just start gay-dating the basketball star, like that’s something that _happens_. The worst part is that he was the only one who didn’t realize how preposterous all that was. Everybody knew this was coming except him. He was the only one who thought they might stand a chance against 17-time musical star Kim Seokjin, when he never even tried to sing in front of people before Jeongguk.

He thought this could happen, that it _would_ happen and that it would work out, because at least he had Jeongguk. The musical isn’t even that important comparatively. He wants to do it, just to prove that he can, but the real blow is that he thought he and Jeongguk had something. They kissed. They held hands. People knew they were singing together, Yoongi saw them kiss. Taehyung thought they had something.

But, he was wrong. Jeongguk may want to be something other than a basketball star, but that doesn’t mean anything. A lot of people want a lot of things, but Jeongguk’s never going to be able to really change. He’s just a basketball guy, a popular guy with a loud voice and a lot of friends surrounding him at all times. The thoughtful and quiet boy with the intent look on his face, the soft touch, the clean smell and the gentle words and the real desire to express himself, that person is small compared to the one people know. And it’s okay, because it has to be, because Taehyung never had a chance anyway.

He walks a loop around the downstairs hallway in the main building a few times, and then he goes upstairs just to change the scenery, not realizing until he gets there that he’s walking right past the huge ridiculous poster of Jeongguk hung up by the trophy case. The doleful eyes are the last things he wants to see after this rejection, but it doesn’t stop him from spending an embarrassingly long moment looking into them. Wondering why he just let this happen, why he embarrassed himself in front of everyone, and why he didn’t stop it.

He checks his watch and sees that lunch is over in a few minutes, so he meanders back to his locker to change out his books before fifth period.

“Hey, how’s it going?” comes a chipper voice from behind the locker door. It’s Jeongguk. Taehyung closes it around and fixes him with  a blank, uninterested expression. Jeongguk grins like he doesn’t know what’s happening, though, like he didn’t call Taehyung _unimportant_ in that puffed-up voice like it was no big deal just forty minutes ago. “I wanted to talk to you about something,” he says, cheeks a little flushed like he’s just run here.

“And here it is,” says Taehyung, voice sounding as dead as he feels. “I know what it’s like to have to perform for your friends. I get it. You’ve got your team. It’s okay. We… we’re good.” His voice cracks a little at the end, and he realizes that he might still look like he’s been crying, but the way Jeongguk’s face falls makes it seem like he wasn’t expecting that. He should have been. Did he expect to string Taehyung along forever?

“Good about what?” says Jeongguk, voice small, and suddenly he looks scared. “I just wanted to talk to you about… about the callback.”

“I don’t want to do the callbacks either,” says Taehyung, gritting his teeth and slamming his locker closed a little harder than he has to. “Who are we kidding, right?”

Jeongguk gapes, looking lost, and finally squeaks out, “But I,”

“No, me neither,” says Taehyung tersely, and turns to go.

“Taehyung,” says Jeongguk brokenly, but Taehyung doesn’t want to cry again this close to class, so he doesn’t turn back.


	8. Chapter 8

Without the callbacks to look forward to, Jeongguk loses his purpose. He moves forward in a kind of haze, not really paying attention to anything except how mad Taehyung is. That meant a lot to him, and he ruined it, somehow. Now that Taehyung hates him, he’s realizing that the approval of the school, of his team, even of his coach really means nothing at all if he doesn’t have Taehyung on his side. Now there’s no one left who likes him because of who he is instead of what he does.

He’s so lost in practice that he barely even registers it when Ken and Jimin wonder aloud right in front of him if he’s doing okay. He messes up so many shots that they just stop trying to pass the ball to him. At home, he tries to make up for his lapses by practicing in the backyard, but ends up just getting so frustrated that he has to fight back tears. He’s too up in his head; convincing himself that he can’t play well has made it so he can’t play well. His head’s not in the game, his head’s in everything he’s ever done wrong, every misstep he’s ever made. He’s going to ruin it for everyone when the championship game comes in a couple days, even though he’s no longer distracted by callbacks, because it wasn’t the callbacks that distracted him. He just wasn’t ready. He isn’t.

He’s walking down the hall after lunch on the day after Taehyung slammed his locker in his face and walked away with his jaw set. He’s holding his math textbook, autopiloting to class without really registering what’s going on around him, when Jimin and Ken approach him. 

“Jeongguk! Hey. Hey Jeongguk.” Jimin catches up to him and taps him on the shoulder. 

He snaps his gaze up and can’t help but sound lost and sad when he says, “What?” 

“We just had another team meeting.” 

“Wonderful,” says Jeongguk. He’s tired of team meetings. 

Jimin nods, actually humble for once in his life, looking apologetic. “We had a team meeting about how we haven’t been acting like a team.”

Jeongguk hums agreement. Maybe it’s his job to deny that, to just move forward instead of agreeing that things have been shitty. As the team captain it’s his job to stay positive and make the best, but he can’t right now. He doesn’t even feel like he’s on this team anymore. He certainly doesn’t feel like he’s got the respect that he used to have. 

“I mean us, not you,” says Jimin. “About the singing thing,” 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Jeongguk tries to keep walking, but Jimin catches his sleeve and lightly turns him around. 

“Listen. We want you to know that we’re gonna be there for you. Cheering you on.”

Jeongguk looks up from the cover of his textbook to search Jimin’s face. He’s confused. “What?” 

“Hey, if singing is what you want to do, we should boost you up, not tear you down. Win or lose, we’re teammates. Even if you turn out to be the worst singer in the world. Which like, we wouldn’t know, right? We haven’t actually heard you sing.” 

Jimin’s trying to be lighthearted, but Jeongguk isn’t feeling that way. “Well, you’re not gonna hear me sing,” he bites out. “I’m not doing the callbacks. Taehyung won’t even talk to me.” He’s trying to sound cold and unaffected because his only other option is pathetic and small, but that breaks down.  “And I don’t know why,” he says, stuffed up, voice wavering like a scared kid.

“We do,” says Ken quietly. He takes the top off a tupperware and offers Jeongguk a warm-smelling cookie. “Here, I baked these fresh today. You probably want to try one before we tell you the rest.” 

⚾︎

“Tae, we were jerks,” says Hoseok. “No, we were worse than jerks, because we were  _ mean jerks. _ ” 

“Jerks are already mean,” says Taehyung quietly. He’s had trouble looking Hoseok in the face since yesterday and it certainly hasn’t gone unnoticed. Still, here he is, physically present in after-school practice for the scholastic decathlon, even if he’s mentally off in space. Well, maybe not space. Space seems peaceful, quiet, not really a place where having a broken heart affects anything. Space is far away from the betrayal that sits in the base of his stomach and pumps through his veins with every heartbeat. He’s not in space, he’s bubbling around in a black pond, drowning very, very slowly in tar.

“We thought Jeongguk and the whole singing thing was killing our chances of having you on the scholastic decathlon team.” 

“I heard what he had to say,” says Taehyung flatly. “I’m on your team now. Done. Check.” 

“No,” says Hoseok, coming to sit across from Taehyung. “It’s not done, Tae.” He takes a deep breath, and when Taehyung looks up at him he seems so, so sorry. “We knew that Jimin could get Jeongguk to say things. To make you want to forget about the callbacks.” 

“Yep,” says Taehyung, not really registering what Hoseok’s telling him past  _ forget about the callbacks.  _

“We planned it,” he says sharply, like he’s trying to shock Taehyung back to life. “We planned it, and we’re embarrassed and sorry.”

“No one forced Jeongguk to say anything,” says Taehyung, so over being strung along, so over having hope that things can be fine for him. “And you know what, it’s okay. We need to prepare for the decathlon. I’m moving on.” 

“No, it’s not okay,” says Hoseok, surprisingly intense, surprisingly serious. “The decathlon is important, but how you feel about us, and how you feel about Jeongguk, that’s what really matters.” 

Taehyung just looks emptily at Hoseok and shrugs.

⚾︎

Jeongguk’s hands are so sweaty. He’s not usually this nervous, he’s not used to feeling like this. Like he’s just eaten too many sour punch straws, or something, like he’s sweating inside, kind of clammy and acidic and cold and hot and like his stomach is full of sponges. This might be the most nervous he has ever been. He couldn’t even run this whole way without stopping, and it’s only about a mile. He does that in practice almost every day. He got a stitch in his side and had to sit on the curb for a minute. 

When he knocks on the door, his hands are so, so sweaty. He tries to wipe them off on his pants, but it doesn’t help. He is the sweat. When a lady in a bandana who looks a  _ lot  _ like an older version of Taehyung opens the door, welcoming and pleasant look on her face, Jeongguk can not reach out to shake her hand. 

Instead, he just tries to sound like he belongs here. “Hello, Ms. Kim. I’m Jeon Jeongguk.” 

“Oh, Jeongguk!” She says it like she knows exactly who he is. 

He’s not sure how he feels about that. He has a second to let it settle weirdly in his stomach, a chance to bolt when she, Taehyung’s mom, turns around and has an obvious exchange with someone out of Jeongguk’s line of vision. She turns back around and apologetically says, “Tae’s got a lot of homework tonight. It’s really not a good time.” 

“Um,” starts Jeongguk, feeling stupid, wondering why he’s even here, “I made a mistake, Ms. Kim, and I would really like to let Taehyung know that. Could you just… could you just tell him I came by to see him?”

Taehyung’s mom looks at him kindly and says, “I will, Jeongguk.” 

“Thank you.”

“Good night, thank you,” says says, and turns to go. Still, no matter how lightly she latches the door behind her, it still seems like a slam in the face.

⚾︎

_ Made a mistake _ , thinks Taehyung, up in his room trying not to be upset. That takes some nerve, doesn’t it? To make Taehyung look like an idiot in front of everybody for weeks, kiss him in secret and then turn around and call him nothing when he’s not there. Jeongguk didn’t make a mistake, he  _ is _ a mistake. The one who made a mistake was Taehyung, thinking he could get involved with something as easily humiliating as singing in front of people, get involved with someone as easily hurtful as Jeongguk, and trusting that he’d be safe. Whatever, he’s been over this, he’s been over it a hundred times since Jeongguk said those things about him, and it hasn’t changed. Taehyung needs to do what he’s good at, which is math, and try not to be noticed ever again until he graduates. 

His phone rings again, and of course it’s Jeongguk again, and this is making it really hard for him not to be upset, so he answers, just to tell him to stop. “What?” he snaps. 

“What you heard, none of that is true,” says Jeongguk as fast as he can, like he knows Taehyung’s about to hang up on him. “I was sick of my friends riding me, so I said those things to shut them up. I didn’t mean any of it.” 

“You sounded pretty convincing to me,” says Taehyung coldly.

“The guy you met on New Year’s is so much more  _ me _ than the guy who said those things. The guy who kissed you in the greenhouse, please, I’m so sorry.” His voice cracks.

Taehyung sighs, sits on the edge of his bed. “This whole singing thing is making everybody wack.” Making the school wack, making Jeongguk wack, making Taehyung wack. This is all so wack.

“I don’t want to just be the basketball guy!” shouts Jeongguk into the phone so it distorts, not even to Taehyung, just like he needs to say it, and keep saying it, say it loud enough that he feels heard. But that’s on him. It’s not about Taehyung. “If they can’t handle it, that’s their problem. It’s not about them. It’s not about my dad or my team, it’s about how I feel. The team let me down, I didn’t let them down. And I’m gonna sing.” 

“God, I don’t know, Jeongguk,” says Taehyung, guarding himself even though he wants to think Jeongguk means what he’s saying. 

“I brought you something,” he says. “I brought you something. I’m outside your house and I really… it would mean a lot to me if you gave me another chance.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I was wrong and I came all this way and I want to prove to you that I care about you more than I care about what people think of me. Okay? I fucked up and I feel so stupid and you mean so much more to me than what anybody thinks.” 

“You’re still outside?” says Taehyung flatly. 

“Um, yeah. Will you come talk to me? I brought you something.” 

Taehyung hates that he’s giving in like this, but Jeongguk sounds so sincere, maybe on the verge of tears, and maybe he really means it. So Taehyung decides that going outside to talk to him for a minute isn’t going to change anything, really, or hurt him worse than he’s hurt, and he doesn’t really believe that Jeongguk has changed or can change but he does  _ want _ to believe that, so he sighs, says “Fine,” hangs up, and goes downstairs. 

His mom’s on the couch with a book, and when he storms by her she says, “Are you going to talk to Jeongguk?”

“He’s still outside, so yeah,” he says bluntly.

“People make mistakes,” she says sagely. “He seemed really sorry.” 

“He was also really rude,” says Taehyung. 

“Well, I’m glad you’re going to talk to him,” says his mom. She knows what’s been going on, Taehyung cried about it yesterday and told her everything. She understands, and she’s on his side, and she’s very sorry that this is happening, but she still seems proud of him for squaring his shoulders and going to meet Jeongguk outside the front door. 

The first thing that happens when he steps out into the mild night is that Jeongguk lets out a breath like he’s been holding it, like he still wasn’t sure if Taehyung would come outside. He’s heard before he’s seen, because it’s really dark out, and Taehyung turns down to the sound and sees him sitting kind of hunched over on the front step. 

“Hi,” says Jeongguk quietly, looking up at Taehyung. It’s not like the guy who was just begging audience on the phone, and not like the one who said all those things about him just to  _ get his team off his back _ . Disarmingly, he’s sitting there on the step looking kind of small and a little shy and a lot more gentle and hesitant than Taehyung wants to believe he really is, and he’s smiling up at Taehyung with big sorry eyes that might be full of tears or might just be reflecting the moonlight, and he’s patting the step next to him and Taehyung decides that since he’s come all this way outside that he might as well sit down.

He doesn’t say anything, though, and when he looks at Jeongguk he keeps his face carefully expressionless. 

“So, I think we should do the callback,” says Jeongguk, just about eye level with Taehyung, sitting very close, but feeling very far. “We’ve worked really hard.” 

Taehyung just keeps looking at Jeongguk.

“Um, yeah, I brought you something,” he says, somehow even quieter and more nervous than before. 

As soon as he saw Jeongguk on that step, quiet and tender like he didn’t want to do anything to startle Taehyung away, Taehyung felt softer toward him than he wanted. It makes him even softer when Jeongguk pulls out a jewelry box. 

Taehyung almost has it in him to crack a joke. We’re sixteen, we can’t get engaged yet! Getting a little presumptuous there, are we? But no, he can’t be silly about this. He’s mostly just impressed that Jeongguk has thought of him at all. It’s not what he expected. He didn’t expect this. 

It’s not a ring, thankfully. Taehyung’s not ready for couple rings or anything that symbolic. He’d turn it down if Jeongguk sprung something like that on him. It’s nothing like that, it’s just a necklace. A thin silver chain, and when Jeongguk lifts it out of the box and holds it up, there’s a charm shaped like two eighth-notes on it.

Now Taehyung can’t help but think it’s funny. It’s cute, but very silly, and it’s  _ so  _ Jeongguk. Clearly it means something, clearly he’s thought about it, but that doesn’t mean it’s tasteful. It’s kind of ridiculous. A music note, because Jeongguk wants them to sing together. Taehyung tries not to laugh, because Jeongguk is trying to make this romantic, but it’s very funny. 

“What?” says Jeongguk, looking horrified, when Taehyung can’t hold in a snicker. 

“A music note?” 

“Yeah, because. We sing together? Is it stupid?”

Taehyung nods, but he leans over to let Jeongguk clasp it around his neck. “It’s really stupid,” he says. “I like it.” 

They sit just for a minute, being next to each other, not arguing or running away but not being close either. Right at the point when Taehyung thinks he might rest his head on Jeongguk’s shoulder, he meekly breaks the silence.

“So,” says Jeongguk. “It’s a pairs audition.” 

Taehyung supposes he can give Jeongguk the benefit of the doubt just enough to see this through. They’ve worked hard, after all, and Jeongguk… he’s trying. He’s not forgiven, but he’s trying, and the only reason this has been so hard on Taehyung is that he likes Jeongguk a lot. Obviously he does; Taehyung’s been talked about before and it’s never gotten to him like this. It’s only this hard for him because Jeongguk is nice and thoughtful and funny and has enormous eyes and his hair’s always a little mussed up and after practice his cheeks stay flushed for a whole hour. It’s only hard because Taehyung wanted to be able to like him as much as he does.

So, this is okay. Jeongguk is trying. They’ve worked hard and gone through a lot for the chance to sing together. Jeongguk isn’t forgiven, but Taehyung’s wearing the dumb music note necklace, and he decides it’s okay, they can sing together on Thursday. 

⚾︎

Jin and Namjoon are walking to the theatre to talk to the techies about the lighting for their callback when they hear something atrocious. It’s music, and it’s very good, and it’s clearly Taehyung and Jeongguk practicing their duet. Stupidly, Jin thought that they were done with. He was sure, actually. For a second, he almost believes that their mutual affection conquered the obstacles between them, but that can’t be right. How silly. It must be a fluke. 

Either way, they sound  _ very _ good. Threateningly good. 

“We have to do something,” he growls at Namjoon. He walks even faster, dress shoes clicking on the tile. “Okay. The callbacks are on Thursday, and the basketball game and scholastic decathlon are on Friday.” Wait. Jin’s a genius. “Too bad they’re not all on the same day?”

“Um,” says Namjoon. “Then Jeongguk and Tae couldn’t make it.” 

“Right,” says Jin. He is so spectacularly, gloriously evil.

Namjoon chews his lip. “Oh, right,” he says. He doesn't sound as excited as Jin, but that's okay. He's just the sidekick.

When they stop off in his office to suggest it, Mr. Bang sighs loudly, loudly enough to carry to the back row of the theatre. “I don’t want to hear any more about Jeongguk and Taehyung, I really don’t,” he says. “So if you’re telling me, as co-presidents of the drama club, that changing the callbacks would be what’s best for  _ our theatre _ , then I might actually agree with you.” 

Jin’s jaw drops. He didn’t think this would actually work, but he shouldn’t be surprised. He’s amazing, and so, so beautifully evil. “Is that a yes?” he asks. 

Bang nods once with his lips pursed, and Jin has to hold in a victorious screech. The callbacks are  _ his _ . 

⚾︎

“Anyway, I was like, I don’t care if your mom made that, you know? I can’t do mustard. Blegh. Wait.” Jimin stops in the middle of the hall and squints dramatically at the callbacks sheet pinned to the wall. “Callbacks moved to  _ Friday _ ? That’s… but that’s the same time as the game?”

“And the scholastic decathlon,” mutters Hoseok beside him. 

“I smell a rat named Bang,” whispers Jimin, eyes narrowed. 

“Actually,” says Yoongi, “It’s two rats, neither named Bang.” Somehow, when Yoongi says  _ rats _ it conjures up the image of two huge sewer monsters writhing around in Jin and Namjoon’s clothes, whereas when Jimin said it, it was only metaphorical. Yoongi grunts. “Let’s gut ‘em.” 


	9. "breaking free"

It’s the big day. Taehyung’s scholastic decathlon, the callbacks, and the championship game. The culmination of everything. For all the preparation, it’s still too much to handle, and Jeongguk is terrified. He’s been spending all his free time in some sort of practice, mostly basketball, which has been pretty much constant the last few days. Practice has been scheduled during free period at school, at lunch, after school, and then in the backyard with his dad when he got home. So, seeing Taehyung has mostly been quickly and in passing. They found time to meet with Yoongi twice, and they spoke on the phone every night. At first, they tried to call each other and run through the song, but there was a lag and it didn’t work, so they just talked for a while.

It’s been a busy, restless few days, but on the morning of the game, Jeongguk is as ready as he’ll ever be.

In the locker room, changing into his basketball uniform, he can already hear yelling and chanting in the gym. It sounds full, it sounds ecstatic. He can’t make out the words specifically but he can feel the rhythm. _What team? Wildcats! What team? Wildcats!_ He’s got a lot to prove out there. His stomach is full of butterflies.

When his dad comes up and claps him on the shoulder, he jumps. “Nervous?” he asks.

Jeongguk tries a laugh. “A little.”

“Yeah, me too,” says his dad. “Wish I could get up there and play with you.”

“Hey, you had your turn,” says Jeongguk, trying to sound lighthearted but coming out just a little strained.

“You know what I want from you today?”

Jeongguk sighs. “The championship.”

“That’ll come or it won’t,” he says, surprisingly soft. “What I want for you is to have fun.”

Jeongguk says, quietly, “Oh.”

“I know about all the pressure,” says his coach. “Probably too much of it has come from me.” He looks into Jeongguk’s eyes meaningfully, like he really wants Jeongguk to know that he’s trying. Like he knows that he’s made it harder on Jeongguk than he had to, but that now he’s giving him the reigns. Jeongguk is the team captain, the playmaker, and it’s in his hands now. His dad bends down and looks right into Jeongguk’s eyes. “What I really want is to see my son having the time of his life out there, playing the game we both love.”

At that, Jeongguk nods. After all they’ve been through, after all Jeongguk has been through to find himself, this is still so important to him. He’s still going to do everything he possibly can to lead his team to victory. And then, somehow, get to the callbacks on time?

⚾︎

Jin catches his reflection in the dressing room mirror and spooks himself. He didn’t realize he was glaring like that, didn’t realize he had his BOSSCEO face on. He stops in front of the mirror and wills his mouth to smooth out into a smile. No, not the one that looks like a primal threat, the real one. Opens his narrowed eyes as wide as they’ll go. Practices introducing himself without sounding like he’s planning on committing a murder as soon as he’s done. “Hi, we’re Kim Namjoon and Kim Seokjin, and we’re going to be singing _Bop to the Top_ from _Twinkle Town_.” He tries it again, and again, and once more, until Namjoon saunters into the dressing room like it’s nothing, loudly crunching on potato chips.

“How’s it going?” he asks, like he doesn’t know that Jin has had it _up to here_.

“How the hell do you think it’s going?” says Jin. “Stop eating like that.”

Namjoon takes another bite, so slowly, like he’s taunting Jin. Jin gives Namjoon a warning look. Namjoon bites down on the chip in his mouth, making a loud crunching sound, and Jin can’t suppress a noise in his throat. He smacks the bag of chips out of Namjoon’s hand, scattering them on the floor, and Namjoon looks confused and hurt.

“We have an audition in five minutes,” says Jin. “Get serious.”

Namjoon just clears his throat.

⚾︎

“Casting the leads of a show is both a _challenge_ and a _responsibility_ , says Mr, Bang, pacing on the stage, gesticulating, and generally treating this, like everything, as if it’s a starring role. “A _joy_ and a _burden_. I commend you and all other young artists to hold out for the sun and the stars.” A pregnant pause. “Shall we soar together?”

He looks back to the wings to make sure Jin and Namjoon are ready, and seeing that they are, he yells, “Kim Seokjin! Kim Namjoon!”

Their song starts, and Jin struts out on stage in his blue sequined blazer and black jeans and Namjoon meets him from the other side.

It’s victorious. They’ve got an arrangement of the song prepared that’s a lot more upbeat than the original composition that Yoongi suggested. It’s also transposed, a little higher, a little more flattering to Jin’s vocal range. The song is upbeat, but there are enough sustained notes and vocal riffs to let Jin show off, and Namjoon backs him up well, and their dance is spot on. Jin’s pretty sure his smile doesn’t look completely pretend, and even _he_ can see himself glittering under the stage lights. At the end of the song, which finds he and Namjoon hanging off a golden tinsel-wrapped ladder, panting for breath, he feels like he’s done a stunning job. Maybe Taehyung and Jeongguk have _chemistry_ , maybe they have that rookie charm, but Jin and Namjoon are professionals. Nobody at this school can hold a candle to their talent and experience. Besides, Taehyung and Jeongguk are _indesposed_.

⚾︎

Honestly, Taehyung’s never been the best with computer stuff. He can _use_ a computer, of course, but he never got into coding. He’s always thought about taking a class, but he just moved away from the one high school he’s been to that actually offered it. So at this point, it still seems a little like magic when Hoseok cracks open a laptop and starts typing quickly into a black box and muttering to himself.

“It’s mostly ready,” he says quietly. “I just have to send it through.”

They’re on a quick break at the scholastic decathlon. So far, East High is in the lead by a long shot, thanks mostly to Taehyung and Hoseok’s cram sessions over the last several days. Honestly, they’re killing it. The other team needs a miracle right now. Taehyung just hopes that what he’s about to do with a vial of ammonia doesn’t get him excluded from academia for life.

Hoseok does the signal that he insisted on creating, tapping the side of his nose and making meaningful eye contact with Taehyung. Taehyung pours the solution together, and it’s seconds before the whole room smells absolutely foul.

“Oh boy!” says Hoseok. “What could have just happened? I suppose we should head to the auditorium, as per our pre-determined and oddly convenient evacuation route?”

⚾︎

The lights in the gym flicker for a second, and Jeongguk’s heart jumps. It’s a weird sensation, actually, to be dragged out of the game so abruptly. He knew it was coming, he just had to get out of the mental place where he was waiting for the lights to falter and the scoreboard to switch off. He had to give 100% of himself to the game, just like, now that the lights are off and the gym full of students is evacuating to the auditorium, he’s about to give 100% of himself to the callbacks.

The announcer calls for an orderly exit, but the way Jeongguk sprints to the theatre is anything but calm. While everybody else lines up, leaves the bleachers in rows, he weaves through bodies and has to shove a guy and darts out of the gym as fast as he’s physically able. He’s sweaty, he’s frantic, he’s breathing hard from stealing the ball just sixty seconds ago, but he’s running and if there’s any justice in the world, he and Taehyung will make it on time to the callbacks.

When he’s almost to the auditorium, he catches Taehyung scurrying in a white lab coat and really, really cute glasses. He thinks of saying something about them, but he can hardly breathe, and they’re technically already late, so he just squeezes Taehyung’s hand hard and they grin at each other giddily for a second and then they run into the auditorium together, just ahead of the crowd.

Just as they can hear Mr. Bang saying, voice thick with fake regret, “The cast list will be posted.”

“Wait!” calls Jeongguk, desperately.

“We can sing, we can sing,” says Taehyung, squeezing Jeongguk’s hand. Yoongi’s up at the piano on stage absolutely vibrating on his bench, silently cheering with his mouth open and his eyes squeezed shut and his fists all balled up.

“I’ve said it before, Mr. Jeon, Mr. Kim. Time means something in the theatre. I called your names twice.”

“Please,” says Jeongguk, still approaching the stage, dragging Taehyung just a little bit behind.

“Come on,” says Yoongi.

“Rules are rules,” says Mr. Bang sourly.

Taehyung and Jeongguk are almost to the steps up to the stage when most of the student body starts filling in through all three of the entrances.

Jeongguk hears Jin say, “We’d be happy to perform again, Mr. Bang, for our fellow students.”

“I don’t know what’s going on here, but in any event, it is _far_ too late, and we have not got a pianist,” says Bang, dripping with regret.

“What do you mean by that,” says Yoongi flatly. “I haven’t moved in thirty minutes. Am I invisible?”

“And that’s showbiz,” finishes Mr. Bang.

“Can anyone hear me?” says Yoongi, grinning down at Jeongguk and Taehyung. “Testing, testing. Jin will never find work if he doesn’t stop being such a diva.”

“Cram it,” shouts Jin.

“Perfect,” says Yoongi, confirming that he still exists. “Yeah, Bang, I’m gonna play with them. You can stay or go, but we’re gonna perform for all these people. _That’s_ showbiz.”

Mr. Bang looks scandalized, but makes no move to leave, and the seats in the theatre are almost all filled by now except for a few stragglers coming in from the game. Jeongguk hears Hoseok yell something encouraging to Taehyung, and when he scans the first few rows, he makes eye contact with Jimin, who gives him a proud, quiet smile.

“You guys ready?” says Yoongi. “Get up here, I’m starting.”

Taehyung goes up to the stage first, and Jeongguk follows, and then there they are. Bright lights in their faces, backdrop of a city behind them, the whole school quieting down and ready to see them do what they’ve caused a huge scene to get the chance to do. Yoongi plays the first few notes, quiet, gentle, soft, and then….

Taehyung’s part comes and goes. He just stares at Jeongguk with that blank look, like he’s frozen in time, like he needs a cue from someone else to move at all. Jeongguk motions at Yoongi apologetically, telling him to stop the music, and he goes to Taehyung, and he knows it’s a little much in front of the whole student body but everybody knows anyway, so he rubs Taehyung’s cheek with his thumb and gets really close and whispers, “Hey, what’s happening.”

“I can’t do it,” whispers Taehyung, blinking at Jeongguk, mouth slack. “There are too many people.”

Jeongguk shakes his head. “It’s just me and Yoongi,” he says. “Just focus on us. Just look at me. I’ve got you.”

Taehyung blinks again, and his face changes a little, resigned. He nods once at Jeongguk, and Jeongguk looks over at Yoongi, who nods back at Jeongguk, and he starts the song again.

Taehyung still looks like he can’t do it, so Jeongguk does a weird signal that says he’s gonna take Taehyung’s part instead. That’s a thing that sometimes he can do with Jimin as well, though rarely with other members of his team, and never as quickly and easily as he can do it with Taehyung. It’s like they’re both so in tune with one another, sharing the same energy in such a focused way that they can actually read each other’s minds. So Jeongguk, somehow, lets Taehyung know that he’s gonna start the song off, and when the part comes, Jeongguk does his best.

His voice sounds weak and foreign, and he’s just a tiny bit behind the music, which is a problem he keeps having. In practice, Yoongi keeps calling him shy, and he knows he’s doing it now, being late, but he’s just really scared. This means a lot right now. Taehyung means a lot, everyone looking at them means a lot, having gotten to the point where they’re really up on stage in front of everyone singing together and being together and asserting that they can do this, it means so much. Jeongguk’s voice is cracking under the pressure.

But then, on the second line, when Jeongguk usually comes in, Taehyung starts singing. He sounds just as unsure as Jeongguk does, and they’re standing really close and staring at each other, like they’re too afraid to look anywhere else, acknowledge anything else, and under his really cute thick-framed glasses, Taehyung’s eyes are a little glassy, and it reminds Jeongguk that they’re in this together. They’re both scared, but they’re both here. They’re holding clammy hands, and Jeongguk gives Taehyung’s a squeeze, and he smiles just a little into the end of his line. Jeongguk can hear it.

When Jeongguk comes back in with his next line, now back on track and singing the parts like they practiced, he’s just a little bit more confident. He and Taehyung are still looking into each other’s eyes, but Taehyung starts smiling, and it makes Jeongguk start smiling, and then at the end of his line he turns away a little bit and hits his note with some power. From his diaphragm, like Yoongi was telling him.

Taehyung responds to that, and puts energy into his next part, too. They’re getting toward the chorus, and Jeongguk can feel it building like it’s crawling on his skin, like the song is filling up.

Right before the chorus, they have a harmony, and they hit it spot on in this exhilarating way. Jeongguk can feel it in his chest, how smoothly they slid down that note, and then he breaks it off, and lets go of Taehyung’s hand and grips his mic and pushes hard into the chorus.

 _We’re soaring_ , sings Jeongguk.

 _Flying_ , sings Taehyung, and it does feel like that. They hit every note and every harmony so perfectly, like their voices were made to go together, like _they were made to go together_ , to reach like this, for the stars, for everything. By the end of the first chorus, Jeongguk isn’t afraid anymore. He and Taehyung are sharing the stage, moving around each other, singing exactly as they practiced.

The second verse is smooth and gentle, and during the second chorus, Jeongguk picks up Taehyung and spins him around. They didn’t plan that, but it feels right. It makes Taehyung’s voice falter just a little bit, but Jeongguk doesn’t think anybody notices, if the insane cheering that erupts at the gesture is any indication.

The cheering doesn’t stop. People stand up and start clapping along, people whoop and yell like they’re still at the basketball game, and Taehyung and Jeongguk keep being so locked into each other that the song goes off without a single hitch. More than without a hitch -- it’s the best time they’ve ever sung this song. Every time Jeongguk sings _we’re breaking free_ , he feels it, physically. By the time the song is over, they’ve both been moving to the music a little, taking steps around the stage, singing out toward the audience, though they keep looking to each other for confirmation. When the song ends, Jeongguk feels as accomplished as he ever has playing basketball, as he ever has doing anything. It doesn’t even matter if they get the parts, it just matters that they _did it_. It feels so good.

The last line is the hardest, it’s the one they’ve had the most trouble with. Yoongi backs off the piano, giving them just enough to keep the key, and the harmony gets really difficult, and they lock eyes again and have to sing it gently, with feeling. It’s not hard, though, this time. It’s just perfect.

They finish the song breathing hard. Jeongguk remembers where he is, the game, that he’s still in his basketball uniform with his hair all sweaty in his face, and Taehyung’s still wearing the lab coat and smiling to himself, and the game, and the decathlon, and everybody is screaming and cheering and yelling for them, and even Mr. Bang looks impressed.

They stand there in front of everybody for a minute, but then Jeongguk takes Taehyung’s hand and starts dragging him offstage.

Before they can be really clear of the auditorium, they run into Mr. Bang, who shakes each of their hands and tells them that he’ll have the cast list posted tomorrow, looking at them with a fierceness that, for once, doesn’t seem like acting.

Then, they run into Jin and Namjoon. Namjoon grins at them like he’s very happy to see them, waving at Taehyung especially from behind Jin. Then Jin says something Jeongguk thought he would go to his grave never uttering. “Really great job, today.”

“Really? You thought so?” says Jeongguk.

“I can’t even be mad,” says Jin. “You guys were super good.”

Taehyung laughs airily, “Well, thanks,” he says, voice gentle like he’s lost in thought.

“But if you get those roles,” Jin says, back to his regular self. “I will _literally_ kill you. And you will not know when it’s coming, and you will not be able to stop me.”

“Great,” says Jeongguk weakly, looking at the fire in Jin’s eyes and feeling like the threat is very real and very close. “Well, we’ll talk to you later.”

“Kay, bye!” says Jin. “Call me.”

Jeongguk does a polite laugh and tries to escape with his boyfriend, but is stopped again by Yoongi, who’s smiling almost like he’s holding in a laugh. “You guys,” he says, gleeful in an infectious way, “You guys killed it. I’m so excited to work with you on this show.”

“Well, we don’t even know if we got it yet,” says Taehyung.

“Oh, you fuckin’ got it,” says Yoongi. “I saw the Kims’ audition. You guys got it.”

Jeongguk pushes the _actual death threat_ he just got to the back of his mind and allows himself to be excited about the prospect. And he is, he’s _so_ excited. He kisses Taehyung’s temple. Yoongi goes, “Awesome job, guys. I’ll leave you to it.”

They’re almost to the exit, really, they are, when Hoseok and Jimin come up to them. They’re standing together, really close. Weirdly close. “Um, hey guys,” says Jeongguk.

“Hey Tae,” says Hoseok. “Hey Jeongguk. So, you’re not gonna believe this, but this bozo just asked me out.”

Jeongguk ogles Jimin, who just shrugs. “You know,” he says, stuttering a little, “We’ve all got our, you know. Stuff.”

Taehyung grins and hugs Hoseok. “That’s really great,” he says.

“Yeah, congrats?” says Jeongguk. “Congrats, guys. That’s awesome.”

Jimin and Hoseok both wave and part so that Jeongguk and Taehyung can _actually_ escape with the _extremely_ limited time they have left before they have to go back to their respective _huge competitions_.

“Where are you taking me?” says Taehyung quietly as soon as they’re out of the fray and heading down the hall.

“Greenhouse,” says Jeongguk. “Just for a minute.”

When they get upstairs, the smell of the plants and the feeling of being alone together up there really does make Jeongguk feel noticeably calmer. Taehyung, too, seems to relax. They sit next to each other on the little bench among the hanging flowers and vines, and lean on each other, and Jeongguk finally gets a chance to kiss Taehyung like he’s been wanting to. Deep, and passionate, and just as close as that song.

“Singing with you,” he says, “Is great.”

Taehyung hums in agreement, leaning forward to kiss Jeongguk’s nose quickly.

“But kissing you is better, I think.”

“They’re both good,” says Taehyung. “They’re both good.”

Jeongguk reaches up to run a hand through Taehyung’s hair. “Whatever happens, with the game, or the callbacks, I’m just happy to have you.”

Taehyung doesn’t answer, he just leans forward and catches Jeongguk’s mouth again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "then everyone danced. the end." 
> 
> really this has been a labor of love, thank you so much for extending the wingspan of ur creative spirit with me
> 
> high school musical is on netflix by the way

**Author's Note:**

> [my twitter](http://twitter.com/bts_leg)


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